Ghosts
by jjboivin
Summary: There is something strange about the woman they find in the winter wilderness. She is cold, unwavering, and strangely menacing. Arthur Morgan finds himself pulled in by that vivacity. Unbeknownst to him, she knows many things that elude this cowboy. Like magnet to metal, no matter how far he throws her away, he always finds himself going back. Mature themes
1. PROLOGUE: WE'RE MORE GHOSTS THAN MEN

**Pairing: ARTHUR X OC**

 **Word count: 3297**

 **Rating: M**

 **I recommend you listen to Millionaire by Chris Stapleton for this chapter.**

* * *

PROLOGUE: WE'RE MORE GHOSTS THAN MEN

 _I got a woman with eyes that shine_  
 _Down deep as a diamond mine_  
 _She's my treasure so very rare_  
 _She's made me a millionaire_

Arthur slipped into his coat, watching as Dutch and Micah got onto their respective horses. The wind picked up and it became hard for Arthur to keep his hat on as he stepped out of the little shack, his gloved hand keeping the rugged hat in place. Blue eyes scanned the white horizon as he climbed onto his mount; a black stead borrowed from one of the guys.

"It's not far Arthur!" Dutch bellowed over the wind and snow. Some flakes caught in his black beard, ice forming on the tips of his long hair.

Micah closed in behind Arthur. "We found the first O'Driscoll-infested house and it went fine," Micah cackled. "Found a darling little peach - Sadie that is. But otherwise, got to kill some stupid O'Driscolls."

"What's to say this ain't gonna be the death of us?" Arthur replied, steadying his horse.

Micah smiled, and it cut his stupid face in half, and Arthur would give his left hand if it meant he could carve his knife into Micah's face.

After they'd found Mrs. Adler and killed the entire lot of squatters at her house, they'd heard wind of another place. Arthur was surprised to hear from Charles that there might be another home available to raid. Only thing was that he suspected O'Driscolls had taken over, as these parts _were_ in their complete territory.

"Here's the plan!" Dutch bellowed. Arthur gave Micah one last glance from under the tip of his hat, then moved his horse alongside Dutch's. "We need to find a way to spy in on the house. Not like last time. Almost got myself killed! So this time, we sneak in, and if we can make it, we go in. On my orders!"

With that, Dutch, Arthur, Charles, and Micah rode off into the blizzard. It was a long ride. Tenacious. Snow seemed to get into every nook and cranny of Arthur's clothing. No matter which way he placed himself, freezing bits of ice found home on his warm skin. Shivers sliced through his body as they headed uphill, his gloved-hands gripping the reins of his stead. The cold made his mouth dry, the skin of his lips cracking under the mask he'd pulled over his face.

From the top of a hill, with snow beating against his face, Arthur saw the little house. Wooden built, two small barns out back, and a coop that was clearly being used for storage. From his vantage point, Arthur also saw the dim glow of a candle through a window.

"Here we are boys!" Dutch reared his mount. "Let's go!"

They rode down the hill like wind. Fast, harsh, and tenacious. Arthur left his mount hitched on a tree just beyond the eyesight of anyone watching from the house. The four of them marched in the knee-deep snow until Arthur could not feel his feet anymore. He made a small mental note to go hunting for pelts.

Dutch grabbed Arthur by the shoulder, brought him close. "You take the back with Charles," he grumbled, "and Micah and I will take each side."

With a quick nod, Arthur dipped his hat and started his way towards the back of the house. Charles close by, they trekked through the snow. The two men were slightly jealous of the clear warmth of the house, proved by the thin sliver of smoke coming from the chimney.

"You think we'll find anything interesting in there?" Charles asked over the deafening screech of the wind.

"We need food," Arthur replied. "And money. Anything we can grab in there is useful. If we can grab 'em off dead O'Driscolls, even better."

That seemed to satiate Charles, and the men went back to the task at hand.

Arthur crept along the wooden wall until he came beside the window. Strangely it was opened, seeping warmth, the smell of cooking meat, and the voices of many men within. Frowning, he leaned against the wall and slid down, gaining more range to what he would hear.

"They're on the run, anyway," one was saying. "It's going to be hard to find him."

"You'll need a trap," this from a voice closer to the window.

Charles crept until he was standing on the corner, eyes on Arthur and Dutch.

"If you're looking for 'em, sweetheart, you'll never find 'em," One added.

 _Sweetheart_? Arthur frowned, looking at his comrade with a skeptical look. There was rustling noise, clearly more than two bodies. A cough. A groan.

"So you came to us to find _him_?" A new voice. Made a total of three unknown bodies.

"Let the little lady have her fun, will you?"

Arthur's eyes locked with Charles'. The latter's eyes went round not only because that had been a new voice which added to a total of four O'Driscolls but also because there was a woman in there. Five individuals, one of unknown intention.

Arthur quickly crept from his perch to join Charles. "We need to get a move on," he grumbled. "There's a woman in there. Possibly young by what I heard. She could be in danger too."

"That ain't our problem, though," Charles said tentatively. Arthur had once been in the opposite situation, where he hadn't given any cares for saving ladies. Now was different.

Ignoring him, Arthur trudged in the snow to find Dutch. The latter was peaking through a window, the slight glow of candles illuminating his face; long, straight nose, dark-set eyebrows.

"There's a woman in there," he said once Arthur had reached him. "There's no guards outside. They're drunk. It'll be easy."

They regrouped in front of the house, just lightly to the side where no one could see them through the window. Arthur's heart was beginning to hammer into his chest. No matter how many times he'd done robberies or infiltration, he couldn't stop the way his body reacted every time. Sweat in places he didn't know he could _make_ sweat. Trembling lips. Racing heartbeat. His hands, however, always remained steady.

"Sweet and easy, boys," Dutch grumbled.

Like ghosts, they pulled from the shadows. Four men, hats dipped over their eyes, masks covering their faces, melted from the darkness. The glow of the candles illuminated the powerful burst of invaders within the home. Wood tore from the hinges of the door, glass shattered from the bullets firing from guns and missing their targets. Bodies moved with practice; fire, reload, aim, kill.

Little explosions ripped from the weapons being used to survive. The entire cabin was filled with noises of death and murder. Blood splattered from open wounds, brains staining the wood of the walls. Candles blew out from the wind screeching in from the open door.

At the end of it, Arthur still stood beside the door, Micah, Dutch, and Charles to his left. Arthur's gun was smoking, aimed at the last O'Driscoll he'd shot. His chest was heaving as the blue of his orbs caught the candlelight, scanning, until he met the woman surprisingly still sitting at the kitchen table.

Arthur had seen may women in his time. Not that he was _old_. He'd bedded some. Played with some. Talked with many. He'd enjoyed the company of many women, as he was not unfamiliar with the likes of them. He loved their bodies, obviously. He could enjoy the warmth they could bring to him, the release, the entirety of being _touched_. He'd loved only two.

Needless to say, Arthur had seen many women in his lifetime. But her... she could easily be the most beautiful woman he'd ever lain eyes on.

Even though her hair was the color of caramel (brunettes were more his type) and her eyes were black as midnight, Arthur was stunned for a second. His eyes came to rest on the smooth planes of her face, the slight redness of her cheeks, and the fullness of her lips. His body started to tingle. Fingers itched to smooth the tension from her eyes, to feel the plumpness of her mouth.

Then he snapped out of it. He aimed his weapon at her.

"Woah, there, cowpoke," Micah grumbled. The rest of the boys had holstered their weapons. Only Arthur was still armed and ready to fire.

Risking one last glance at the woman, Arthur carefully holstered his weapon. He lowered his mask, revealing the small itch of a beard to the warm air of the cabin. That's when he saw the strangeness of the entire situation.

The woman, not much older than her mid-twenties, was hogtied to the chair. Feet and hands, unable to hurt anyone or defend herself. What was stranger, however, was what she was _wearing_.

Arthur had nothing against women wearing pants. But those were pants he'd never seen before. Loose and tight all at once, exposing curves. Pockets on each side of her thighs. She also wore leather boots, which had to have cost her a colossal amount of money. A loose cotton long sleeve covered her upper half, the material a dark blue. She wore no coat or any coverings to hide her from the ferocious weather.

She was also gagged.

"What in the hell?" he groaned.

She was struggling against her bonds, her swan-black eyes stuck on _him_ of all people. Arthur's skin tingled again. Sweat coated her forehead, which was surprising, given the weather. Her caramel locks, so long they fell beyond Arthur's eyesight, were messy and clearly needed a brush.

"Charles," Dutch barked, "get her talking. Micah, loot the bodies."

As they watched Charles take the humid gag from the woman's mouth, the hairs at the back of Arthur's neck stood on end.

There was something vicious in her eyes. Something he'd seen many times; it had stared back at him and he'd stared at it right in the face. It was the same vivacity, the same tenacious anger he'd harbored into his own soul. The way the world had hardened him, he could see the reflection of it now within the blackness of this girl's eyes.

"Lady!" Dutch was saying, trying to catch her attention. But she was staring at Arthur. "You're going to be okay now. We just want to ask you some questions."

Arthur began looking around the house. He couldn't take her heavy stare, the perpetual blackness of her orbs, the emptiness of them. They had come here to rob, take what they most dearly needed, and be on their way.

"Madam," Dutch continued. By now, the wet gag was hanging from her neck. The girl exercised her jaw, eyes finally finding home somewhere else. Arthur was relieved of that. "We won't hurt you. I promise."

She made a sound deep in her throat that took Arthur by surprise. A growl?

"Really, miss?" Dutch added. "You are safe. I swear it." When Arthur looked back at her, she was staring at him once again. She had deep-set eyebrows, thick and curved over her eyes. Her nose was small and straight, as if cut from stone. Just over the fabric of her shirt was a long and elegant neck. This woman was made to either be a circus actress or a singer, not alone in the winter wilderness with O'Driscolls.

"Nothin' on these boys," Micah grumbled, throwing away useless papers he'd found on the bodies.

Dutch sighed heavily. "Micah, take upstairs with Charles," he ordered in that baritone voice of his. "Arthur, stay with me and little miss… something here."

"I think she wants to stay mute," Arthur grumbled. Charles and Micah headed upstairs, not with their usual banter. The girl seemed to take Arthur's comment with anger.

"Before we untie you," Dutch said, "would you like to tell us your name?"

Her black eyes slid from Arthur to land on Dutch. Her brow furrowed and something quick and menacing flashed in her features, but it was gone quickly. Arthur had enough a mind of his own to put his hand on his revolver. The girl was still tied to the chair, but something slick was crawling up on Arthur's flesh.

"Arya." Her voice was hard, like frozen rain when it hits the roof of a house. Arthur remembered what it was like to huddle beside his son, listening to hail hammer on the roof. Mesmerizing and terrifying all at once.

"That's a pretty name," Dutch added. "Where are you from, Arya?"

She frowned deeper. Jokingly, Arthur imagined that if she wasn't tied, she'd try to stick it to Dutch one way or another.

"I'm from… Delaware."

The hesitation was not what got to Arthur. Yes, she could be lying about where she was from, but didn't everybody lie about their origins occasionally? What triggered something in Arthur was the accent. Sweet, low, and something he'd never heard. He'd been around enough to hear all kinds of accents, but this was something he'd never heard before.

It seemed like Dutch thought the same thing. "Never new folks in Delaware spoke with such an accent," he joked, a smirk cutting his face.

The woman – Arya – jerked her chin. "If you would be kind enough to untie me," she said, her accent still catching Arthur off guard, "I'd like to go."

Dutch put up his hand so fast, even Arthur didn't see it. "Now, now, little lady," he grumbled. "I'd just like to know why the O'Driscolls had you tied up like fresh meat."

Silence filled the room. Arthur took off his gloves and passed a hand over his face. "We just want…" he trailed off, meeting her dark gaze. Shivers ran down his spine. "It ain't like the O'Driscolls to leave a woman… untouched."

Dutch cleared his throat, albeit awkwardly. "Why were they questioning you?"

Again, that defiant chin jerk. "Because I was following them."

The admission was surprising. A woman following the O'Driscolls?

"You're the law?" Arthur asked, perplexed.

Arya made a weird gesture with her mouth, scoffed out, "Do I look like the law to you, gentlemen?"

"Then why were you following them?" Arthur pressed. He put both palms on the table, leaning closer. This time, with the glow of the candlelight, he could see freckles on the bridge of her nose. It made him think of his younger days, when he himself had a wash of freckles on his cheeks. Only two remained, however.

"They could bring me to the man who murdered my brother," she admitted coolly.

Dutch stirred. "Colm?" he asked.

She veered her icy glare on him. Shrugged. Bit the inside of her cheek. All with the allure of utter viciousness. "Yes," she replied. Something in the way she stared at Dutch made Arthur believe she was hiding something. Either it was the answer to Dutch's question or something else altogether, Arthur didn't want to know.

"Then, little miss Arya-" Dutch began.

"Don't call me little," she growled.

Dutch smiled widely, like Arthur had never seen him do. "Oh, I like you!" he bellowed, pointing at her. "If you're planning on getting your hands on Colm O'Driscoll, then you should be riding with us."

Arthur straightened, looked at his boss with shock. Wasn't he the one that said to stop bringing strays in?

"Do you have information on them?" Dutch continued.

"Dutch!"

Micah ran into the kitchen, his eyes wild with bloodlust. Arthur's skin crawled.

"I see some comin'!" he panted. "Three on horseback, maybe more!"

Dutch considered that for a second, before jumping into action. "Go back upstairs with Charles and hold the windows," he ordered. "Arthur, take the back of the house. I'll take the front."

"I can handle a weapon, you know," Arya said. In the little mess, they'd all forgotten about her.

"The little lady speaks!" Micah cackled, but cowed under the growl Dutch gave him, and scurried up the stairs.

"Arthur," Dutch grumbled, "untie her. Give her a gun."

The order was banal and so unbecoming of Dutch. Give a woman a weapon? Could she really handle herself?

Arthur did as he was told, however, and used his knife to cut her bonds. Up close, she smelled of lake water and fresh air. Her wavy hair was soft against his cheek as he brushed on it to free her ankles. And when she stood, _much_ smaller than he would have guessed, she looked up at him with a deep frown. "You gonna give me a gun or what?" she growled, still with that accent of hers he couldn't place.

Grumbling, he handed her his revolver and took out his rifle. "Cover the windows," he said lowly. When she turned and walked away from him, he could see how her trousers hugged her curves and he knew that if this woman accepted to ride with them, Mrs. Grimshaw would have a field day with her.

The shooting started not long after. Micah could be heard upstairs, roaring his pleasure from the top of his lungs. Windows and glass broke all over again. Wood splintered and shattered, curses thrown in the air like confetti, and one thing was sure, that little Arya was fending for herself good enough.

When it was all over, and the house was once again rendered a total mess, the five of them stood in the kitchen. Arya stood near the entrance, still gripping Arthur's revolver. The latter was panting beside Dutch in the kitchen. Charles and Micah were staring at the woman from their perch in the stairs.

"Little lady knows how to shoot," Micah taunted again. His blonde hair was stuck to his sweaty face, and when he stuck his tongue out to lick his lips, even Arthur shivered in disgust.

"Call me little again, and I'll show you just how good I can shoot," Arya growled, turning to face Micah.

Just then, the door burst open. A gush of wind blew across the kitchen, cold and brutal. A lone O'Driscoll, desperate and terrified, came staggering in, aiming aimlessly around the cabin. In a movement so quick and precise, Arya had wormed her way into obtaining that man's knife. Arthur was readying to draw and save her life, but the woman had sunk the knife so deep in the O'Driscoll's throat that blood was already pooling on the wooden floor. The body made a sickening thud as it hit the ground.

The silence didn't last long, but in it, Arthur saw no evidence of fear in Arya's face. She was stoic, brows pulled, lips puckered, as she sheathed the knife into the belt of her trousers. She wasn't even trembling.

"Okay!" Micah laughed as he jumped down from his perch. He strolled by Arya, giving her a light tap on the shoulder. "I like you."

Dutch was laughing too. "You're welcome to come with us, miss," he said, then gesture to her bloody hands. "We could use someone like you."

Her silence was answer enough. She was strangely attractive, with blood speckled on her face, anger written all over her features, hair in a mess.

"Arthur, you can ride with her." Dutch's command brought Arthur out of his reverie.

He was not pleased by that. He didn't want to get any closer to the strange vivacity of her. It seemed like it would pull him in, too.

He gestured for her to follow him. She grabbed the O'Driscoll's coat and followed him out into the still-raging blizzard.

Arthur's mount waited for them at the stable. Everyone mounted, Micah yapping on about something that seemed to displease Charles, because they were going at it. Arthur was more concentrated on the woman he was currently gripping by the forearm and helping up onto the saddle, in front of him. He wasn't comfortable with having her behind him yet. When she moved her legs so she could straddle the horse, Arthur frowned deeply. Could this woman get any stranger?


	2. CHAPTER ONE: THE DEER AND THE WOLF

**Pairing: ARTHUR X OC**

 **Word count: 1417**

 **Rating: M**

 **I recommend you listen to Tennessee Whiskey by Chris Stapleton.**

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CHAPTER ONE: THE DEER AND THE WOLF

 _You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey_  
 _You're as sweet as strawberry wine_  
 _You're as warm as a glass of brandy_  
 _And honey, I stay stoned on your love all the time_

Arya's hands were freezing. Her entire body, mind you, was a total block of frozen ice. When Arthur noticed how strong her trembling was, he took off his gloves and handed them to her. Gingerly, she took them. Form his vantage point, Arthur saw the redness of her cheeks and the fullness of her lips. He didn't know why, but his fixation went even further. Her eyes were actually a very deep brown instead of black. Her brows were thick but well kept, which was rare for women in his camp, and whenever she frowned, a crease formed between them. And her hair smelled of rainwater.

"Don't want you freezing your fingers off, miss," he grumbled. She gave him a look over her shoulder but accepted the gloves anyway. They looked ridiculously big on her, but if they kept her warm, Arthur had no problems.

They rode hard through the mountain. The snow had fallen so much that even the horses had difficulty managing through. The horizon was beginning to shimmer, dawn just on the cusp of breaking through the outline of the mountains.

"Where are we headed?" Arya asked.

Arthur felt a sharp pang in his chest. Something was definitely wrong about her. He felt it on the tip of his tongue, tingling in his fingers.

"Camp."

They rode the rest in silence.

The shape of her body had begun to imprint onto his front by the time they saw the campfires of their home up ahead. And even though Arthur Morgan had sworn off women and physical contact a long time ago, he was still a man. Arya was voluptuous in a way young women were, and having her rubbing against him slightly with every jolt of his horse was making his body react in ways he shouldn't want.

Camp began to slowly build around them. Javier holding guard far ahead. Charles and Lenny sitting by a campfire. Snow coated rooftops, ice crystallizing along the edges of the wood. Under inches of snow, carcasses of cabins lay astray, either eaten by mold or fire, Arthur couldn't guess.

He began to take notice of the way people in camp were staring his way. Mostly at Arya. Abigail was holding Jack on her knees, brown doe eyes heavy on Arthur and the cargo he was carrying. Karen and Mary-Beth, who were supposed to be taking care of Davey and his grave, were standing, mouth half-open.

Arthur rode his stead to the hitching post, slid off, and hitched him. Arya casually slid off before he could gallantly offer his hand.

He watched her observe the camp. Her black eyes scanned the snow first, as if she was looking for footprints or clues. Then she examined the buildings, her lips moving slightly as if she was counting them off, one by one. She watched Uncle stagger out of Pearson's cabin, Micah examining his gun too closely, and Hosea talking closely with Tilly.

When Arthur saw the very, _very_ slight smile spread on Arya's lips, he grabbed her violently by the arm and dragged her through the snow. A gurgled sound came from her mouth, the snow on her hair falling awkwardly into her face. Dutch and Micah took notice of the altercation, moving toward the scene, following Arthur.

The man brought her to the door of his own cabin, kicked it open, and swung her in. She landed on her side looking all the most awkward. Big blue woolen coat that she'd taken off the O'Driscoll she'd murdered. Arthur's black gloves that were obviously took big for her. Caramel mess of hair carelessly pushed behind her ears. A wild look in her swan eyes.

"Arthur!" Dutch came behind him, followed by Micah, and closed the door. The cold was crisper in there, rendered to the space around them. Their breaths came out in harsher white clouds.

Arya's breathing was ragged as she crawled back slowly on her hands.

"What is the meaning of this?" Dutch demanded quietly, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders. The latter was slowly beginning to tremble, anger and doubt tearing his handsome features.

"Arthur's got a hard on for the new kid," Micah joked teasingly, his face turned low, looking at Arthur from under those thin white brows of his.

Arthur's hand flew faster than he could think. In one motion, he had back-handed Micah so hard that the latter's cheek was already reddening. With a squeal not unlike a school girl, Micah reared back, shoulder against the wall, hand cradling his cheek.

"You get that filthy mouth outta here before I make you regret even having a mouth!" Arthur growled.

"Arthur!" Dutch held him back using two hands against the big man's chest. Arthur may have been big and tall, mean looking, and rough, but he was not immune to commands from his boss.

Arthur's eyes zigzagged between Micah and Dutch twice, then down to Arya, who was watching the whole thing with a very deep frown.

"Micah, you should leave," Dutch breathed, still not taking his eyes off Arthur, neither his hands.

It was only until Micah had sauntered outside, letting a bite of cold air in, that Dutch took his hands off of Arthur's chest.

"Now would you _please_ tell me the meaning of all this, Arthur?" Dutch demanded loudly, his dark eyes wildly searching his comrade's face.

Arthur hesitated, motioning between the girl on the floor and the window. Words bumped out of his mouth. He was flailing.

"Don't you find this all funny?" he blurted out. "We find some girl who knows how to shoot and kill. She has _convenient_ information about Colm. Doesn't hesitate to come under our wing?"

Dutch sighed heavily. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose and he let out a very small chuckle. "Oh, Arthur," he chortled. "I think the stress is getting to you."

Arthur frowned so deeply that his brows seemed to connect under his hat.

"The stress?" he growled. Then he turned to the girl, still sitting on the floor. However, she was now loosely hugging her knees with her elbows, leaning back against the wall. Her head was cocked, bird-like, as if examining a very peculiar scene. Her face was stoic, as always, but she was frowning ever the slightest. "She's too convenient!" Arthur exclaimed.

"If you don't want me here," she said in a very low voice, getting to her feet, "I'll just go." She made to walk passed them both, but Arthur, once again, lay hands on her to throw her back.

"Convenient!" Arthur growled as Arya stumbled backwards. "Once she knows where our camp is, she bolts. Probably right back to Colm O-"

Arthur had been hit before. He'd been punched repeatedly. Slapped, pushed, kicked. Almost everywhere on his body, he'd received a blow.

He had never, however, been thoroughly punched right in the balls.

Bent in half, the breath knocked-out of him, Arthur heard rather than saw the scene unfold before him. Dutch burst out laughing as if the greatest joke of all time had been said. And the girl said one very peculiar thing to him.

"You want to talk about me running back to my brother's murderer again, I'll cut your dick off."

Arthur coughed. The pain between his legs was a harsh throbbing. Dutch laughing in his ear was an insult.

"Okay, I really like her!" he was saying. "You've got fire, madam. You're in! We're headed down from the mountain soon, but as soon as we are settled somewhere… less displeasing, I'm all ears for that information of yours."

Then Dutch grabbed Arthur by the shoulder. "Cut her some loose, my boy," he said close to Arthur's ear. "She's lost, and we can help her as much as she can help us. Put that superstition away for now."

"She didn't have to do _that_ ," Arthur grumbled back, gesturing to his crotch. He stood up straighter, wincing, eyeing the seemingly nonthreatening girl.

"Seems like I did," she mumbled, arms crossed over her chest. She looked at him and that air of viciousness and rabid anger had left her features. Arthur saw no trace of the predator on her face. It did something strange to him. Instead of the threatening prickling on his skin, it sent a wave of relief through his chest.

He nodded, readjusted his hat, and made to leave. Before he was out of earshot, he heard Dutch say, "Have Mrs. Grimshaw take you over, darling. She'll get you up to date."


	3. CHAPTER TWO: HAVE FAITH

**Pairing: ARTHUR X OC**

 **Word count: 2000**

 **Rating: M**

 **I recommend you listen to Nose on the Grindstone by Tyler Childers.**

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CHAPTER TWO: HAVE FAITH

 _He said one of these days you'll get out of these hills._  
 _Keep your nose on the grind stone and out of the pills._  
 _See the ways of this world just to bring you to tears._  
 _Keep the lord in your heart you'll have nothing to fear._

"What fresh is hell did you bring upon me, now, Dutch?"

Arthur looked back from Dutch's cabin, the harsh wind of the mountains whipping at his face. His cheeks were bitten red, skin around his mouth raw, and rashes had begun in the corners of his eyes. If they ever made it out of this mountain alive, Arthur would delight in the warmth of a good bath.

Mrs. Grimshaw stood in a tight black dress, breasts pushed up almost to her chin. Back in her first days, Arthur had found it particularly hard to avoid the old-woman's bosom, especially when she put it on display as such. She had such fine taste in clothing, and she knew how to make people work, but it seemed that people were more scared of a nip-slip than Mrs. Grimshaw herself.

"What are you talking about, Mrs. Grimshaw?" Dutch asked, walking out of his cabin. The door clanged shut behind him.

"That girl you brought along," Susan went on. "She's impossible. Dresses like a man and doesn't want any of the clothes I usually reserve for the girls. Where exactly did y'all find her?"

Dutch's face split into a grin. "Oh, Mrs. Grimshaw," he chuckled. "Let the woman be! We are headed out now anyway. Is everything in order?"

Susan's face went flat. "Of course!"

"Then let's ride!"

The entire caravan was on the move when the sun had barely made its ascent into the sky. Slow flakes trickled from above to settle onto Arthur's shoulders, who was riding the last wagon. Beside him, Charles, and sitting among the stocks was Hosea and Arya. The latter was dressed in a huge black woolen coat she had taken from one of the men's closet, a red union shirt, and black pants held with thin suspenders. She still had on those strange leather boots.

Arthur was pretending not to listen, but his soul still harbored the nameless doubt about that girl. When he sneaked a look back, noticing how she'd fashioned her hair into two braids running tight along the curve of her skull, her saw her bent towards Hosea.

"A train?" she was saying.

"We planned to hit it before coming down," Hosea answered. He was wrapped in many woolen layers, but his cheeks were red, and his breath puffed out in thick white clouds. "We decided to take more time. Our dynamite line was broken anyway. We will settle down here, and then come back up to hit the train when we've got all we need."

He must have been showing her a map, Arthur wasn't sure, as he was looking forward. They were traveling further south, and the warmth was beginning to seep into his coat. They rode along the sharp decline of the hills some more, bodies jostling simultaneously, Arya and Hosea whispering on about plans and places. All of this was giving Arthur nausea. As they rolled down from the snowy tops and onto frozen mud roads, Arthur's stomach roiled with doubt.

Telling her all these plans. All the places they had in mind to hide out from the law. Arthur didn't like it. In fact, he never liked strangers. His mind had been trained to doubt everything. And now, his chest was burning, and he wanted to tell Arya to sit in the other wagon.

Just at the instant where he was going to propose it, the wagon shifted to the left and crashed onto its rear haunch. The sound it made, as they exited the Cumberland bridge, was metal and wood grinding against each other. Arthur made a deep sound in his throat, stopped the horses, and jumped down from the seat.

"Aah, I broke the Goddamn wheel!" he cried out in anger.

Everyone jumped down, gathering behind the wagon to examine the broken wheel. It lay against the wagon, out of its socket, soaked in mud.

"That's an easy fix," Arya mumbled.

Charles gave the woman a side look while Arthur bent beside the wheel. From his vantage point, he saw the weird exchange of eyebrow game between Charles and Arya, and then she sighed and picked up the wheel.

"Can you big boys hold the wagon up?" she asked, plunging her fingers into the dirt on the wheel to bring it upright.

Arthur's growl stayed stuck in his throat. He nonetheless joined Charles to hoist up the end of the wagon. Straining, he watched from the side as Arya hooked the wheel back on and hit it with a few swings of her hips until the wheel clanged into place.

"There it is!" Hosea exclaimed, hands in the air. Arya's face did something strange. It split and splintered into a smile, and Arthur saw just how white her teeth were, how full and red were her lips. For a brief instant, very brief, he forgot how to breathe.

He'd seen many beautiful women in his days. Blondes, brunettes, reds. Light skin and dark skin. Tall and short, stout and elegant. He'd seen the variety of body shapes, of eyes, of smiles, and of cheeks. He'd tasted those lips and caressed those curves. Arthur Morgan had been with many women that he considered beautiful, yet none could compare to his Mary. His Mary. Brown-haired beauty. Freckled nose and cheeks. Heart-shaped lips that always looked wet. _His Mary._

Arya was coming quite close to eclipsing his Mary. That smile, dimpling her round cheeks, softening the almost perpetual angered look on her face, was going to be imprinted in Arthur's mind for a very long time.

He found himself sitting in the driver's seat, frigid fingers clutching the reigns, Arya and Hosea still talking it out in the back of the newly-fixed wagon.

By now, Dutch's wagon was way ahead. Arthur had to follow the wheel tracks in the dirt to know the path, because dear old Hosea was too busy letting the new girl in on their plans. He thought about her running off in the middle of the night, bringing that breathtaking smile with her, and giving all that information to Colm.

Arthur spotted Javier hanging off the road.

"Climb on in, cowboy!" Charles joked.

Javier crumbled something in Spanish yet swung along the edge of the wagon to sit among the stock. "Miss Reed," he greeted, tipping his hat towards Arya.

Arthur mulled that over. Arya Reed.

Somewhere in the afternoon, they'd arrived at Horseshoe Overlook. Susan Grimshaw had arranged every single little detail; the kitchen wagon, healing kits, and respective tents. Dutch's monster of a tent, complete with the vinyl player and Molly's things, gloomed on the outskirts. Hitching posts. Cleaning wagon. Empty tables. It looked like home, or as close to home as it could get. This was camp.

Arthur's own tent was off beside Dutch's, not far from the man's protective glare. They'd spent a few days settling in, scouting ahead to see if the coast was clear. There were no lawmen in effect in the perimeter of camp, and the only bounty in town was on a dog slayer in Valentine. They were as safe as they could get.

Arthur had used the down time to hunt. Alone with his horse and his bow and arrow, he scoured through the lands. At peace, serene with nature, Arthur felt at home within the wilderness. The weather was chilly in the morning, but with the warm sun, it got very comfortable during midday. Nights were cold, but on good days, when the sun had become more than warm, the night tended to stay warm too.

When Arthur rode back into camp, his skin crusty and hair dirty, he smiled at the usual praise from the women.

"Good one, Arthur," Karen cooed in that cracking voice of hers, motioning to the white tail deer on his horse.

"That's gonna make some good stew!" Mary-Beth cheered, showing pink cheeks under the hot sun.

As Arthur hitched his horse and slid off, he spotted a caramel-haired woman sauntering against the blue horizon. Dressed in a mud-stained black union shirt and black pants, Arya was helping Sadie hoist tin bins of water to Pearson's wagon. She kept readjusting her suspenders and flipping her braids behind her back. Mud had stained her cheek where she'd had absentmindedly wiped at her face.

The two women made a hell of a pair. Sadie with her rough ways and untamed attitude. Arya with a calm coldness that sent chills to the core of the soul. Arthur watched them interact; Sadie going on and on and on, while Arya nodded along with a look of murder written on her features.

"Arthur!" Dutch was calling him from his tent, waving and smiling.

Gathered around him were Micah, Hosea, Lenny, Javier, Bill, and Charles.

"Arthur, now that you've joined us, we can start the preparations for the train heist." Dutch cleared his throat. "With the information so nicely provided to us by the O'Driscolls and Miss Reed, we know the train will be crossing into the Grizzlies."

"We were just there, Dutch," Micah grumbled. "Why couldn't we hit it while staying there?"

"Because Bill's stupid detonator was broken," Charles answered, giving the former man a side glance.

Bill put his hands up. "It's the detonator's fault, not mine!"

"Now that everything is in order!" Dutch bellowed over the bickering. "We will ride tonight. Charles and Javier, you ride ahead right now to scout for us. I don't want any surprises."

The two aforementioned gave a sharp nod to the rest of the gathered bodies and walked off.

Dutch continued, "The rest of us will ride tonight. We will camp at the halfway point. In the morning, we will wait for the train, who, according to our information, arrives in the early afternoon." He produced a small stack of papers from his vest and started handing them out. "Hosea has made makeshift maps if ever anything happens."

Arthur grabbed his and was surprised when Dutch handed one to Arya and Sadie, who were quietly standing behind the group of men.

"Miss Reed and Mrs. Adler!" Micah sing-songed in that grim voice that was between a rasp and a growl.

"Probably a better shot than you," Sadie grumbled back. Arthur smirked at the way Micah frowned deeply.

"Why is everyone convinced I'm a bad shot!" he growled.

"We leave at dusk!" Dutch exclaimed, before closing the flap to his tent.

Arthur watched as everyone dispersed. Sadie and Arya went back to their chores with Pearson. Micah disappeared to the edges of the cliff beyond the trees, twiddling something woody between his fingers. Hosea grumbled on about plans and money but stayed somewhat close to Dutch's tent.

Arthur wasn't sure if bringing the women on such a high-stake heist was a good idea. He had no doubt that they could fend for themselves, but he was still not sure if Miss Reed had clear intentions. As he thought that, he watched he roll up her sleeves and hoist up more buckets. She stopped once she held a bucket, cocked her head, birdlike, and in a swift motion, locked eyes with him.

Blue met black and Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. He turned and walked off, thinking he should start preparing his bag for the ride ahead. All the while, he could feel the heavy dark stare of Arya burning holes into his back.


	4. CHAPTER THREE: THE GLOVES

**Hi. As you will see, there are scenes taken directly from the game, so here I am with my well overdo disclaimer.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING PERTAINING TO RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2 AND ROCKSTAR GAMES. EVERYTHING PERTAINING TO RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2 IS NOT MINE AND OWNED BY THE MAKERS AND PRODUCERS OF THE GAME. I ONLY OWN MY OC, ARYA.**

 **Word count: 4476**

 **Pairing: ARTHUR X OC**

 **RATING: M**

 **I don't think I mentioned this but... slow burn buddies.**

 **Thank you to those that followed and favorited.**

* * *

CHAPTER THREE: THE GLOVES

 _Angels come down from the heavens_  
 _Just to help us on our way_  
 _Come to teach us, then they leave us_  
 _And they find some other soul to save_

Arya had prepared herself for the long journey ahead. Sitting each side of her hips were two pistols, hanging loosely from a hard leather belt. Around her thigh, strapped tightly, was a six-inch hunting knife. The blade glinted in the light of the sunset.

The girl knew the mountains were strenuous, so she packed a few extra layers onto her saddle. She took care to bring a rifle and a shotgun. However, as Sadie had said, train heists would require only revolvers, for close-up shots. Beside her weapons, Arya had packed some food, water canteens, and her bedroll. To affront the weather in the mountain side, which would be chilly, she wore a woolen poncho with a red blouse underneath.

Horseshoe Overlook was a cozy little camp. Arya, after living for such a long time in a house, wasn't used to sleeping under a tent flap on the hard ground. But now, after a couple of days to settle in, she had gotten used to it. Afterall, after the death of her brother, she had spent a long time by herself, camping out in the middle of nowhere.

Here, however much Sadie cried herself to sleep, Arya felt safer than whenever she had camped out alone.

The only person that made her skin crawl in such a strange way was Arthur Morgan. Whenever the gunslinger was around her, somehow, the girl followed him with her eyes like a hawk. Even the man himself had started to worry about her. But the few days that they'd been here, they had had minimal to no contact.

"Mount up!" Dutch's command made Arya frown, his voice so shrill and deep. She hated men who gave orders out like candy. But to get to the man who killed her brother, she had to stick with this gang. They both wanted to get their hands on the O'Driscolls. This was her best lead in months.

Back when she'd first found her brother dead, she had had a lead that Colm was somewhere near Saint-Denis. She'd spent about three months in that dump, trying to find him, coming up empty-handed. Ever since that lead, she'd been dry. Only after a drunken O'Driscoll boy, who'd wanted to impress her, had opened his mouth about the whereabouts of his camp did Arya have a real lead. That lead her to the mountains, in the snow and cold, tied to a chair and gagged.

And now she was here, with the setting sun at her back, mounting her red-wine colored horse, about to go rob a train.

The plan was simple. They were to ride up north for a few hours until night fell. When they were at the foot of the mountain, they would set up camp and sleep. At the first signs of morning light, they would ride to the ridge and wait for the train. Bill would detonate the dynamite and off they'd go.

The dirt skidded under her mount; Rori, a fierce female. She rode ahead of Sadie and behind Micah. Ahead of them all was Bill, Charles, Arthur and Dutch. Behind, holding the back, was Lenny and Javier.

They rode hard. Arya's horse was not used to her new master, and so often Arya had to reassure her. The sun set behind the western mountains, waking up the thousands of stars overhead. As they rode, more and more of the little spectral explosions appeared. Arya rode with her eyes on the stars, on the darkness of the sky. The further they went, the cooler the air became. The wind ripped at her braids, loose strands of hair tangling on each side of her face. Her cheeks were beginning to burn from the cold as they rode harshly for the mountains.

* * *

They had been riding for a few hours. Arya's butt was beginning to burn from the saddle, her thighs already numb. She wrapped the poncho tightly around her neck and was currently sporting her mask to cover her cheeks from the biting cold. Ahead of them, looming, outlined by the stars, was the mountain. Snowy tops, rocky descents, and grassy bed at the bottom.

They made for the slop between the range, where grass grew plentiful and the slope provided cover to anyone who wished to attack. The latter would be surprising, thought Arya, as she knew no one lived in the lifeless lands at the foot of the mountain. She'd spent weeks camping around these parts, skinny, starving, and sleeping on the rocks. Nothing but weird birds and coyotes had come to bother her then, so she doubted anymore, or anyone, would come now.

"Let's set up camp quickly!" Dutch ordered from ahead.

The night's ride had worn them all down. Sadie was disheveled and panting as she slid down her mare. The woman was usually a chatter-box or a crying mess, but now she waddled to a lone rock and simply sat down on it.

Arya, her eyes roaming the gang as they all dismounted, found that she held sour thoughts towards the so-called leader. He was not fully off his own horse that he was already bellowing orders here and there. Set up the campfire there. Don't make it too big. Have the rations spread equally but give me my own cut first. All of this was making the blood boil within her veins.

Deciding to ignore the orders, the brunette climbed down her horse and unpacked the things she brought. She lay her bedroll beside Sadie's, feet facing the campfire that Charles was setting up. Then she put on her woolen coat, that she'd taken from the "boy's clothing", as Grimshaw would say, and the mittens she still had from Arthur.

Her eyes rose quickly as she realized who the gloves belonged to. The man was setting up his own sleeping arrangements, far away from the others, secluded from the warmth of the fire. The young woman took a deep breath and marched across the grass incline to him.

He gave her a side look when he sensed her beside him, his eyes covered by the rim of his hat. She saw him purse his lips, awkwardly scratching the underside of his chin. He was wearing a black long coat over a black vest and white blouse. His hands were bare.

"These are yours." Arya threw her hand out, fingers clutching the gloves.

Arthur shrugged, turning his back to her as he patted his horse. "Keep 'em."

Arya's sigh was heavy and loud. "Would you just take them?"

By the way Arthur turned, he was pissed off already, but nothing had time to come out of his mouth. Dutch was clambering towards them both, arms wide, his dark coat making him almost melt in the shadows. Arya's skin prickled and she recoiled from Arthur, withdrawing her hands within the warmth of her coat pockets.

"Arthur, you should take first watch," Dutch said, then his eyes met Arya's. "Oh, miss Reed, how are you?"

"Fine."

She turned and left, leaving the two men alone in their own corner of bitterness.

When she sat down on her bedroll, she saw Sadie smirking, flames of the fresh campfire reflecting off her face.

"You gotta keep 'em now," the woman rasped. "They'll keep your hands warm anyway."

Arya huffed. Then she slid her hands into the gloves, marveling at the warmth, and lay down in her roll. The night's ride got to her quicker than she thought. As soon as her eyes were watching the stars, the ones she used to watch with her brother all that time ago, she began to feel the effects of sleep tugging at her.

* * *

Arthur's hands were freezing. He hugged them under his armpits, but after a while, his hands had flattened out. To keep watch, he decided to sit near the fire and warm his hands, all the while looking out for intruders.

He didn't know these parts of the Grizzlies. Coming down from the mountains, he hadn't seen hide nor hair of anyone. He doubted they would be deranged during their short slumber.

Arthur sat between Lenny and Dutch. Scooting towards the fire, Arthur reached out to warm up his freezing fingers. As he did, he caught sight of his brothers around the fire. Javier sleeping in a ball, Charles on his back, and Micah twitching and groaning in his dreams. Arthur thought about smacking him, but that would wake everyone up, as the blond gunslinger was not one to take a slap quietly.

Dutch slept on his back, his hat over his eyes. The leader of the Van Der Linde gang snored in his sleep.

With a smirk, Arthur continued to scan the little group. Bill laying flat on his back, belly up to the stars. Sadie slept on her side, the form of her body waiting for someone to spoon her. Arthur didn't doubt she used to sleep cuddled up to her husband. How that woman had been so destroyed after the death of her husband. She still cried herself to sleep, Arthur knew, and heard. He'd been up one night, wandering the camp, when he heard the sniffles coming from her tent.

Arya was sleeping on her back, face up to the sky. Something in Arthur was telling him to skip over her, not to linger too long. But he watched the soft flutter of her lashes, the slight twitches of her full mouth. She was dreaming, he could tell, by the way her brows furrowed, and her lips moved. She looked soft, however. Slightly illuminated by the fire, her skin seemed silky, but what was more appealing for Arthur was the softening of her features. Her perpetual frown was replaced by a look of peace. He'd only seen her smile once, and that had made his insides feel like steam. Looking at her now, features as peaceful as calm waters, he began tingling all over.

He groaned lowly in his throat. What was wrong with him? She'd punched him in the crotch. She made him feel like something was wrong all the time. Arthur knew his gut feeling was never wrong, so why was he staring at her longingly while she slept?

A couple hours later, he woke up Charles to take the next watch.

* * *

Arya woke up to the sounds of camp life. Groggy with sleep, eyes watery and mouth dry, she stretched into a sitting position on her roll. Around her, people were drinking coffee, packing their horses, or just talking in hush whispers. The sky was dark grey, and when the young woman looked east, she saw that the sun hadn't broken through the horizon yet.

Sadie handed her a hot cup of coffee, which the brunette gulped down quickly. Before she knew it, the young woman was back on her horse, holding the reigns, still wearing Arthur's gloves.

Those God damned gloves.

Arya rode with Sadie behind the entire group. The young woman found solace in the widow, who might have a big mouth but also had wise words. There were only two people that she actually trusted and liked within camp. Hosea and Sadie. Everyone else was either too innocent or made her insides whirl with turmoil.

"You ever rob a train, Arya?" Sadie asked. Her horse was a big thing, dark with white splotches. Its breath came out in stuttering white puffs.

"Never," Arya answered truthfully, an awkward smile on her lips. The girl had never done anything bigger than a house robbery. That had been back when her brother was alive. The pain of his memory was a sharp pang in her chest, and she had to swallow it down with a harsh gulp.

"Ever pulled the trigger on someone?" Sadie continued.

Arya smirked. "Of course."

The ridge was not far ahead. They rode hard until they all stood on it, hands to the reins of their horses, white puffs of air lingering before their mouths. The sun was bright and harsh on the eastern horizon. Clouds, white as snow, hung heavy in the clear blue sky. The train track zigzagged through the grassy lands, from the south, through the thick underbrush of the Cumberland forest, and right under their feet. At their backs, the tracks wound up through the mountain.

"Bill," Dutch grumbled, "get the detonator ready."

Bill clambered down towards the tracks.

"Everybody else, let's get ready to hop on." Dutch looked at his comrades under a heavy brow. "Arthur, Micah, you take the front. Lenny, Charles, and Javier, take the top of the train, make sure there's no surprises. Sadie and Arya, you get the back with me."

The waiting was the hardest part for Arya. They stood beside their horses, just inside the tree line. Bill had his hand on the detonator. Arya had her heart in her throat. How hard could it be to rob an entire train?

"You and me, Morgan," Micah taunted, crystal blue eyes menacing from under white brows.

Arthur showed teeth. "Great."

Micah cackled. "Have you got a problem with that?"

"Not if you keep your head for once," Morgan mumbled under his breath. Arya almost laughed.

"Enough!" Dutch bellowed. "You're going to blow our cover! Now remember, take care of the guards. We're only after Leviticus' private car."

"Who the hell is Leviticus anyway?" Sadie asked. Her hat was tipped low over her brow, covering the nasty gnarl she was keeping inside after hearing Micah taunt Arthur like that.

To think of it, everyone was wearing a hat except Arya, whose head of hair was braided each side of her head.

"Some rich guy who deals oil and sugar," Dutch answered. "Hosea seems to think going after him is not a good idea."

"It would do us all good if we listened to Hosea," came Arya's mumble.

All eyes turned to her. She felt the many pairs on her skin like cigarette burns and she averted her own eyes from them all.

"New girl's got some ideas of her own, huh," Micah drawled. Arya's skin crawled when she met his eyes; those light blue orbs that looked like she was staring death right in the face.

"Well, she ain't wrong." Arthur caught her eye just as he said that. Blue met black and Arya held in a breath for a split second. Then the man rose a brow and Arya's mind splintered.

For a second, she was staring at a black and white picture, words scribbled on the side, dark ink oozing in and out of her focus. Life sounded around her; the buzzing of voices, the shuffling of feet. Breathing. Laughing. The whirlwind of life.

And then she was slammed back here, the cold biting her cheeks, Arthur's cerulean blue orbs puncturing holes into her sanity.

"If we had all listened to Hosea in Blackwater," Arthur continued, "we might still be there without a bounty over our heads."

"The next person to mention Blackwater doesn't get a cut from this," Dutch growled, rearing his horse in front of them all. He scanned the faces before him; five men and two women.

"Dutch!" It was Bill, waving his hands.

"Alright, masks on boys," Dutch ordered. After a beat, he added, "Ladies."

The low and slow _whumpwhumpwhump_ of the train echoed in the distance. With each new beat, Arya's heart hammered harder within her chest. Her palms started to sweat inside Arthur's gloves. She brushed her bandana over her nose and tied it tightly behind her head.

The detonation of the dynamite made Arya's teeth rattle. The explosion made wood splinters and dirt rain overhead. The bright orange of the flame almost blinded her as she kicked her horse forward, rushing out of the trees with everyone else. Smoke curled upward in thick twirls; choking and charcoal black.

She had time to see Arthur, Charles, and Micah dismount, arm their weapons, and head towards the very first wagon of the train. She reared her horse to follow Sadie and Dutch along the edge of the train. Already, gunshots echoed behind her. She heard the footsteps of Javier and Lenny on the roof.

"Get on, ladies!" Dutch yelled.

Arya slipped down her horse, grabbed her shotgun, and followed behind Sadie. The trio ran along the edge of the train, weapons aimed, eyes round and focused. They entered the first wagon, which was filled with cargo crates and empty barrels.

"Take cover!"

The first shot rang in Arya's ears as it zipped by her head. The young woman ducked behind a crate, her weapon crushed against her chest.

Dutch was half-hidden behind a barrel, leaning out to shoot at whoever was shooting back. Sadie was taking cover at the door, taking in shots whenever she could.

Arya peaked over the crate, aimed her weapon, and fired as a figure broke in through the other end. They dropped, a bloody hole gaping in their chest.

And on they went. It wasn't hard. Arya's heart was pumping ferociously in her chest, but her aim was deadly. Wagon after wagon, the trio washed through it like a knife through butter. Arya's mind became a tunnel. Wood splintered and scratched at her face. Blood, her own and not her own, spotted her cheeks like freckles. She kept going, never looking at the bodies, stuck in a wheel of kill or be killed.

When they reached the last wagon, Arya's mind seemed to come out of the cloud. She looked around at he bodies strewn behind them. She didn't feel anything but the soft sting of seeing so much blood.

"It's locked." Sadie punched her fists against the metal sides of the wagon. "We're comin', assholes!"

Dutch jumped down from the wagon, breathing in sharply. Arya followed behind him, still clutching her shotgun.

"Let's wake 'em up, ladies," he sighed.

Arya traded her shotgun for her revolver. Sadie laughed while reloading her rifle. Shots began to ring in the air as they peppered Leviticus' wagon with bullet holes. The sun was shining so bright by now that light streams peered through the holes in the metal. Arya thought the light streams were beautiful.

When the trio had stop firing shots, the rest of the gang caught up to them. First Micah, breathless and laughing through that stupid blond mustache of his. Then Lenny and Javier, guns hanging loosely in their hands. Arthur clambered through, black coat open, mouth parted as he made a headcount. Finally, Charles deigned everyone with his presence.

"Everybody alright?" Charles breathed.

Micah cackled once again. "I'll be alright once I get this money." His voice made Arya's skin tingle with goosebumps.

Everyone, Arya noticed, was speckled with blood. No one seemed to care.

"Anybody hurt?" Charles insisted, ignoring Micah's idiocy.

"Yeah, everyone is fine," Sadie rasped. "Now let's get 'em."

Simultaneously, they marched up to the last car, where shadows danced behind the bullets holes still steaming.

"What are you boys planning on doing in there?" Dutch bellowed, his voice mellowed down to a such a softness, it was as if he was talking to a bunch of children. "Listen to me, we don't want to kill any of ya. I give you my word, but trust me, we will." He was pacing, ranting, his red and white mask molding to his face. Arya followed him with her eyes, aware that he looked much at ease in this position of predator.

"I work for Leviticus Cornwall!" came a shrilling cry from inside the wagon. Shadows danced again behind the open wounds in the metal.

"Come on boys!" Dutch insisted, but Arya couldn't help but think that his insisting was not very heart felt.

"We got our orders!" came the same shrilling voice. Arya's fingers clenched around her pistol. Wind gushed harshly against them all. The smoking holes in the metal of the wagon seemed to call out to them. _More_! they said, _more_!

"Okay!" Dutch yelled. "You asked for it!" He started to count down from five among the courageous outcries from whoever was leader inside the car.

Around her, the men and the woman began to feel restless, like hyenas waiting for lions to leave the carcass. Breaths reeled in. Weapons cocked. Feet rustling. Micah was smiling broadly. Charles was clenching his teeth so hard, muscles in his jaw were twitching.

"Seems our friends have gone deaf," Dutch concluded, sarcastically pitiful. "Wake 'em up a little!"

This time, Arya's revolver stayed by her side. Everyone else was carried away in spraying more wounds into the metal of the wagon. Whatever writing had been there before was now interrupted by steaming holes. Cries echoed from inside. Shadows stopped dancing. The sound of a firefight sent birds scurrying into the vastness of the blue sky.

No one noticed that Arya hadn't shot a single bullet. She was staring at Dutch from under the thickness of her dark brows, something menacing written all over her features. No one noticed that either.

But Dutch turned back half a second before everyone had stopped shooting. His eyes met hers briefly, black to black, one pair wide the other narrowed. Then time seemed to retake its course. Dutch exhaled sharply.

The gunfire ceased.

"Mr. Williamson," Dutch said calmly, his gaze turning to Bill, "give Mr. Morgan and Ms. Reed some dynamite. You two go blow that door open."

There was something strange passed between Dutch and Arya as Bill pushed dynamite into her opened palms. Dutch stared at her, expressionless, seeming to tell her, _see, look what I can make you do._

She hadn't fired her gun against the car a second time, but she would sure be forced to blow it up.

Arya ignored the dark shiver that sliced down her spine and walked toward the car. She stuck the dynamite against the door, careful to avoid any eye contact with Arthur. She let Arthur light the sticks and ran back to the line of men and a woman waiting by the tree line.

The explosion was small and contained, but still, Arya felt it rattle her bones as if they were strung to a cord and left to blow in the wind.

Once they had successfully blown a hole into the side of the wagon, everyone, including Arya, held up their weapons. One after the other, Leviticus' men stepped out of the car, hands up in surrender.

"Alright, come on, just walk on out here," Dutch ordered. "We don't want to kill _you_. We just want to rob your boss."

The gang seemed pleased to let Arthur, Lenny, and Micah search the train for the money. Arya kept back, weapon aimed at the men sitting on the ground, hands to their heads. Many of them, she noticed, were young.

Briefly, and so harshly she felt it in her stomach, she was reminded of her brother. He was not much older than these young gentlemen when he had bled out as she watched crimson seep through the slants in the wooden floorboards. She saw him, her brother, hair the same color as hers, matted with red. His eyes, green as the forest in midday, lifeless and unblinking.

Time shattered and slowed and dipped. Nausea gripped her insides and the girl swayed. And then, as swiftly as she remembered her dead brother, she remembered the photograph. Black and white. Ink on the sides with dates. Her own painted fingernails scratching at the sides of the old picture.

A voice at the back of her head said, "Legends."

Then time went normal. The bright sun cooking her skin. Weapon aimed at a young man trembling before her.

And Arthur staring at her from the open mouth of the car, his lips ajar. She saw the slight frown on his face, noticed how his eyes did a once over on her. Then, as if on instinct, his blue eyes found Dutch, and so did Arya, just to find out he, too, was staring at her.

"You alright there, Arya?" Dutch asked, and if the young woman forced herself, she could probably hear the forced thoughtfulness in his tone. "You're looking sick."

"I'm fine." She cleared her throat, regained her senses, and holstered her weapon.

"Got anything?" Sadie hollered, rushing up to the train.

Micah jumped down with a satisfied sigh. "Just some papers about the man's business in the safe," he drawled. "Arthur found some bonds. Good money, I guess."

Arthur handed the bonds over the Dutch, who gripped them eagerly and looked them over. "Oh, yes, bearer bonds," the man said. "We can sell them pretty easily."

"That's some good money, I reckon," Sadie added, pleasing smile on her pretty face. Her and Arthur shared a smile.

Dutch motioned to the three boys on the ground, shivering and trembling in both fear and cold. "Arthur, do with them what you please," he groaned, eyes scanning the bright horizon. "Kill 'em, set 'em free, just make sure they don't send anyone after us."

Arya's finger clenched into fists. She stared at Arthur, _really_ stared at him this time. The shadow of a beard that made his jaw look sharper than a blade. The fullness of his mouth. Strict cheekbones. Thick eyebrows. Long strands of sandy hair tucked behind his red-tipped ears. A look of submergence all over his features.

The young brunette had lain lives to rest many times before. She'd seen light leave the soul. All of this, only after the death of her brother. But she had never once, _ever_ , taken the life of an innocent. She had never once taken the life of a surrendering man, on his knees, quaking in fear.

Arya saw in the eyes of those three men how the terror gripped them. Stuttering breaths. Staggering gazes. Not one of them, however, pleaded.

She stood there, watching Arthur, aware that everyone else was getting on their horses without a spared glance. They didn't care that they were leaving the fate of three men in the hands of Arthur. Three men balancing on their fates. One man obliged to choose which way the toll fell.

"We'll see you back at camp, Arthur." Dutch's baritone voice made Arya look up, taken from her fervor. Dutch was staring at her, willing her back onto that horse of hers.

She climbed onto to it quietly, feeling heavy, like the side of the balance that Arthur had to choose.

"The rest of you!" Dutch yelled, his voice loud in Arya's head. "Let's ride!"

Arya's horse sputtered to life, racing along with the Van Der Linde gang. She was apart of them now. Her road to redemption was cut; impossible. She had to remain with them to finish her road to _vengeance_.

When she looked back, seeing the black silhouette of Arthur before the three men, she wondered on which path that man was walking.


	5. CHAPTER FOUR: PROFIT IN A SHITTY TOWN

**I changed a whole lot about this mission. We also get a glance at a very unique mission of mine that I invented to tend to Arya and Arthur's relationship. This will probably get them closer together.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN RED DEAD REDEMPTION AND RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2 AND ITS CHARACTERS/PLOT/ENVIRONMENT. I OWN NOTHING. ONLY MY OCs.**

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR: PROFIT IN A SHITTY TOWN

 _Honey load up your questions_  
 _And pick up your sticks and your stones_  
 _And pretend I'm a shelter for heartaches_  
 _That don't have a home_

Arya made it back to camp by evening fall. Battered and bloodied from the train heist, she sauntered to her tent, ignoring the little celebration starting over all the money collected. The girl fished some water from a bucket and dipped her hands in it. She washed her face and chest; whatever flesh of hers had been speckled with blood was also crusted in dirt.

What she wouldn't give for a nice warm bath.

She lay back onto her roll once she was clean enough. Sleep tugged at her senses, but she could nonetheless hear camp life around her. In between that vague place of sleep and wakefulness, Arya dreamt.

She sat beside her brother, his closeness bringing the reassurance it always had. Same colored hair. Emerald green eyes that crinkled at the sides whenever he laughed. Bright sunlight streaming on his features - the ones she thought she'd never forget, but after all this time, they were beginning to fade. And fading he was. The corners of her memories of him seemed to curl in like burning paper; less and less available for her to remember.

They were laughing, sitting on the porch of the home they shared. Before them, the horizon shimmered from the hot days of summer. The brunette wore a black union shirt and sandy jeans, and her brother kept teasing her that she looked like a boy, especially with that flat chest of hers.

They fought. Fist to face and elbow to ribs. They were covered in dried mud by the end of it, bruised and bloody noses, but laughing and panting, laying side by side under the burning sun.

And the happy memory faded. Just like him; curled in like burning paper. Ashes billowing away in a harsh, cold wind.

She was choking. No, she was _being_ choked. Hands thicker than a bull's horns wrapped around her throat effortlessly. The air in her lungs was cut short, her chest aflame. Spots danced in her vision, her legs kicking under her, hitting nothing but dried dirt. All she could think was her brother; _where! Where are you? Help me!_

Arya woke up with a start. Breathless, covered in sweat, she lay on her back, her right hand held to her aching throat.

Sadie was asleep beside her, but the tent flap was open to the night sky. Stars sprayed into the darkness like sugar. The reassurance of their presence was almost as comforting as the presence of her brother.

Arya tried to find sleep again but couldn't. She was hot and damp, and her mind was too sticky with the freshness of her dream to let her delve back into it.

The night was cool and fresh when she stepped out of her tent. The camp was entirely asleep. They had celebrated, the lone bottles of whiskey proof enough. Even Javier was still by the fire, crumpled up in his sleep, snoring under his poncho. As she walked toward the remaining embers of the fire, she saw the guitar laying beside Javier. Logs had been moved so people could enjoy the warmth and the music.

Bringing up a small log into the fire, Arya thought she heard shuffling behind her. A hand to her revolver still tucked at her hip, she turned to the noise. Darkness greeted her and nothing but crickets to fill up the empty space. Shadows danced languidly across the glow of the fire, but none of them attached to a body.

She sighed, resting by the fire with her legs tucked underneath her. Thoughts swirled in her head like smoke. Her brother; his murderer. The blood dripping in thick beads between dirty floorboards. Empty green eyes. Emptiness inside her.

"They had quite a party." One of the shadows ripped from the tree line. Arya's heart sped in both fear and astonishment as she saw Arthur peel from the darkness to join her by the fire. She gave him a once over; dirty and bloodied boots, jeans, black buttoned blouse. His hat was hanging in the fingers of his left hand, sandy long locks of his hair messily pushed back behind his ears.

"You're back," she said, voice monotone. It was more of a statement than a question, and so Arthur only grunted, sitting by the fire. The young woman watched him as he lay his hat on the grass, one leg folded under him, the other with his knee to the sky.

In the darkness, he smiled, but she never saw. All she saw was the suspicion in his eyes, which had been there since they'd found her in the mountains.

"What did you do with them?" she asked, gaze returning to the growing flames of the fire.

"I slit their throats."

She winced, prayed that he didn't see, and covered her emotion with a sigh. "You didn't want to let them go?"

"There's no honor in lettin' a man go just so he can get himself killed by another." Arthur scratched under his chin, his growing stubble shadowing his jaw, making it look as sharp as glass.

"Did you bury them?" A quick look at him told her the answer.

"No."

"Well," she sighed, "then that doesn't make you an honorable man, now, does it, Mr. Morgan?"

He smirked, and this time, she saw it. Crinkle by the side of his full mouth. Amusement in his blue eyes. "Were you havin' a nightmare?" he asked, to change the subject, and maybe, because she was getting too close.

"What?" Her face went slack, and she stared at him vacantly.

He pointed to her tent. "I heard you."

Arya didn't want to know what he had heard. She nodded. "Don't tell me you've never had one."

Again, he smirked and scratched the underside of his chin. "Well, I've got a pretty damn good remedy for 'em, anyway," he groaned. When the girl cocked her head to the side with a look of incomprehension, Arthur fished out a small bottle of whiskey.

"Can't dream if you're too drunk to even think," she mumbled, feeling her mouth burning with the need to smile.

The silence that followed was heavy. Both stared at the flames, sharing nothing but their own idleness. The night lived around them; crickets and hoof sounds and rabbits in the long grass.

"I'm sorry," he said lowly. "I'm sorry for sayin' you were an O'Driscoll." When she looked at him, she saw the remorse in his eyes, but something else. He still harbored the suspicion that there was something eternally off about her. He wasn't wrong.

"I'm sorry for punching you in the balls," she offered.

His suspicion made way for laughter. His full mouth stretched into a genuine smile that she returned only halfheartedly. Then he got to his feet, put on his hat, and mumbled, "Goodnight."

* * *

It was two weeks. Two weeks of just wandering around, doing things here and there. Arya spent most of her time with Sadie, helping out Pearson. She was a good huntress. Had been for years. With her brother, Arya had scoured New Hanover with him for days, bringing in elk and rodents for their homestead. She was skilled with a rifle as well as a bow.

All this hunting and stationary life was making her restless. Uncle and Karen were getting on her nerves. Dutch was being too evasive. Micah had disappeared to God knows where, bringing all kinds of trouble on his tail probably. Grimshaw was a real pain the ass. If she caught one soul not working, she was sure to let you know with the world's loudest voice and gruesome insults.

So when she saw Uncle chatting with Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly about going into town, she jumped right on the occasion. By Dutch's orders, they had been obliged to stay in camp or the surroundings. Going into town, Valentine, was forbidden until Arthur Morgan himself deemed that it was safe.

Morgan was in on this little trip. Arya and he were friends now. Gone were glares and smart comebacks. For two weeks, they had greeted each other cordially, like old friends; smiles and waves. But Arya was a woman who kept to herself and Arthur never shared more than he needed to. Hence why their contact never went further.

Yet, Arthur never stopped peaking at her. When she smiled, for him, it was like sun peaking through thick clouds. She smiled ever so rarely and never once did Arthur miss his chance at catching a ray of sunlight. His life, as it has always been, was darkness and the stars were not thick as sugar. They were rare; they were almost inexistent. He didn't know what to do about the way his fingers curled with hunger whenever he saw her face, or what to do about the fact that his mouth went dry and his mind went blank when she lay eyes on him.

But they were friends now.

"Come on, cowgirl!" Karen cawed, her strawberry blond hair bouncing on the side of her face, glittering in the sun. The girl was _well_ endowed, which meant she had much to show, and she was not covering herself at all today.

As for Tilly and Mary-Beth, they looked as proper as school girls.

Uncle was dressed in dirty rags that Arya didn't even want to examine. As for Arthur, he wore a blue worker's blouse, sleeves rolled up to reveal chiseled forearms and tan marks. His shirt was open under his neck; skin reddened by the sun.

Arya jumped in next to Arthur, who held the reins of the wagon. Uncle and the girls sat in the back, much to the former's discontent.

"Got all dolled up for town, Mr. Morgan?" she teased, but her mouth didn't stretch into the smile he so loved to see.

"I should say the same to you, missy." He gestured to her attire; red blouse opened just enough to let the mind wonder. Let the eyes wander. Arthur cleared his throat and returned his eyes to the road.

"I'm not even wearing my evening gown," she offered back sarcastically, a shadow of a smirk on her lips.

Arthur laughed. The trees gliding overhead made intricate light beams shimmer on his face. "Oh, and that changes somethin'?"

Still smirking, she said, "Keep your eyes on the road, cowboy, and stop talking about women's wear."

"Yeah yeah."

Valentine was the definition of shitty. Arya had lived there with her brother, just an hour north. When he was alive, her brother worked as an extra hand to help build houses and buildings in Valentine. He worked with the carpenters while she worked at the general store as a seamstress, sewing anything and everything that came through that door.

"John looks like he'll be alright."

Arya turned to the man at her side and gave him a sharp look. "Yeah?"

"Scars don't look too bad on him," Arthur elaborated, whipping the horses. "Too bad we couldn't save Davey."

"You and John are close?" she ventured, looking out to the road.

Arthur shrugged. "Seems like it."

Valentine loomed in the distance. So did memories. Arya's throat felt suddenly dry, closing, and the imaginary fingers that had strangled her in her dreams seemed to be ghosting over her throat. As they rolled into the first wet and muddy streets, she saw specters of herself and her brother.

The post office, where their money came and went. The train, where they ridden all the way down to Saint-Denis one afternoon that they both had off. The saloon, where he had made Arya have her first drink.

"You alright, there, missy?"

Arya's gaze met his; black on blue. "Yeah."

She saw how he didn't believe her, but she didn't care.

They parked the wagon in front of the general store; which sparked weird memories for Arya. When she worked here, the shopkeeper had been so nice and welcoming to her. He was a warm man – Adam – and he always made sure she had something to eat before she left for the evening. He never overworked her, never underpaid her because she was a woman, and kept himself very respectful towards her.

"You wanna go in with me?" Arthur asked as he jumped down from the wagon effortlessly.

"I'll go with Mary-Beth, I think," she answered.

"Let's meet back here in a bit, yeah?" Uncle rasped as he himself was wandering out to God knows where.

"Me and Tilly will start with the saloon," Karen announced, strong voice of hers, while carrying along the ebony-skinned beauty.

"Okay," Arthur sing-songed, "just stay outta trouble and don't get yourselves noticed."

"Come on, Tilly," Karen mused, seeing as the other girl didn't seem as amused as her. "Imagine we're in Paris!"

Arya smiled, shaking her head at the contrast between Karen and Tilly.

"Come on, now, Arya," Mary-Beth chimed, "let's go see what we can find at the hotel."

* * *

After calling Uncle a parasite and being called unfocused, Arthur had successfully bought some cigars and was waiting out on the general store porch for the women to dig up some dirt. Uncle sauntered out of the store with a bottle of whiskey hanging loosely from his fingers. He offered it to Arthur, who took a generous swing, and sat beside him.

"It's a funny world," Uncle drawled.

Arthur made a noise at the back of his throat. All the while he was in the store, his mind had been with the caramel-haired, five-foot-three woman. He had to resist multiple urges to run out of the store, across the muddy street, and into the hotel to find her – to make sure she was alright. His fingers itched whenever he thought about something going wrong. His mind raced with possibilities. Many times, he had to remind himself that she could take care of herself very well. Arya Reed could probably handle a gun as well as he could.

He needn't worry. But worry he did. And that, well, that made it all the more a funny world.

"This time in my career," Uncle went on, "I pictured myself being married to an heiress."

Arthur winced, covered it up with a cough, and searched the streets for any petite woman with an attitude and a holster. None.

Arthur had done the same dream as Uncle. When he was young, in love with Mary, and wishing on the stars to give him what he wanted. He'd wanted to marry her, to love her, to hold her through thick and thin. He'd wanted to see her full and swollen with his children and have pairs and pairs of feet running across their house. He'd pictured a ranch, or maybe a cabin by the water to teach the kids how to swim. Mary's smile to greet him whenever he walked through the door. A dog. Love in a straw-filled bed.

All that was dust in the wind after Mary broke his heart. The pain – something he never thought existed – was like being stabbed inwardly. Blunt forced trauma. There was a darkness, a blank nothing, to replace his days following their breakup.

And then Isaac. Eliza.

There was nothing in the world that could tear Arthur out of his misery after them. Nothing in the world to make him love or even feel again after their bodies were put in the ground.

He'd dreamed. He'd dreamed well and fair and full of hope. Look where that had gotten him.

Somewhere during all of Uncle's babbling and Arthur's thinking, he managed to snooze. He woke to the sound of Mary-Beth talking.

"Gentlemen," she cooed, "I think I've got somethin' good."

Arthur's eyes adjusted to the light for an instant, then landed on Arya, standing with her hip jutted out. She looked almost angelic, with the sun wrapping around her figure like a halo. She'd pulled her hair into one braid, somewhere during the day, and fly-away hairs curled at the side of her face.

Arthur tore his eyes from her to bring them to Mary-Beth. Also, to avoid Arya seeing just how bad he was staring.

"Arya and I snuck into this fancy house," Mary-Beth started, earning a look of concern and anger from Arthur. Now, his heart and head were burning with ideas of danger for not only Arya, but Mary-Beth. "We acted like servant girls. Usually works. Someone was sayin' her sister was takin' a trip from New York or someplace. Train full of rich servants headin' to Saint Denis and then cruisin' off to Brazil!"

Arthur was not impressed. "Okay." He looked over at Arya, who had an eyebrow up, seeming to tell him he should listen more to what Mary-Beth had to say.

"A train laden with baggage and passin' through a bit of deserted country at night as to get to the docks in time for the tides in some place called Scarlett Meadows," she went on.

"Yeah, I know it," Uncle whispered.

Arthur was beginning to see the plan. He scratched the bottom of his chin, nodding. The wheels in his head were turning.

"Yeah, yeah," Uncle went on, "it's right out near New Hanover. Real quiet out there."

Arthur sighed, but there was something else there. Approval. "Sounds good."

Mary-Beth and Arya exchanged a glance and a girly smile. Arthur had never seen Arya smile like that; all toothy grin, dimpled cheeks, and high eyebrows. He'd seen the smile she makes when she is filled with happiness – the one she gave Hosea in the Cumberland Forest. He'd seen her smile sadly or just out of politeness. He loved to see her smile.

But this smile, all squeaky and cute, like a puppy, made his insides pinch.

Tilly came running across the street just as Arthur was still gazing at Arya. The ebony girl, all smiles and goofy grins, came rushing up the steps.

"I stole some money!" she exclaimed.

"Atta girl," Arya chuckled.

"Where's Karen?" Tilly asked, frowning, concern on her pretty face.

Arthur stood slowly. Something turned in his stomach, churning, warning. His eyes scanned the girls before him – all wore a look of ignorance. Then he scanned the streets. From the people walking to work, to the women chattering by the saloon, and the horse masters prepping the animals.

"Where is Karen?" he asked lowly.

"She said she was going to go make some quick bucks," Tilly admitted timidly.

Arya sighed, tightened her belt, and jutted her chin to Arthur. "You and I should go check the hotel."

Arthur frowned. "Why?"

"And why can't we come?" Uncle complained.

Arya rolled her eyes so hard that Arthur feared they'd stay stuck. "Because ya'll can't take a shot like Arthur and I," she growled, "and you can't come because you're fucking useless!"

Uncle hollered. "It's Lumbago!"

"It's Lum-fucking-fake!"

"Okay!" Arthur intervened. "Arya and I will go to the hotel. Uncle, take the girls to check out the saloon."

Arya and Arthur both watched the trio leave. When they were safely away, Arthur took a step towards the girl. "Why do you think she's at the hotel?" he asked.

Again, the young woman rolled her eyes. "Because she's going to make some _quick cash_ …"

Arthur's lips parted and he nodded. Oh.

The hotel was right across the general store. Inside, the teller was gone. Arya sighed, complained about disrespectful staff, much to Arthur's amusement, and motioned to the upstairs.

"We should go see, right?" she asked. Her cheeks were slightly red. "I mean, what if, you know… we catch them in the act?"

Arthur shrugged. "Maybe we should just wait here until the teller comes back," he suggested. "Then we can ask him if he's seen her."

Arya seemed to weigh the option. Eyes vacant, but mind aflame. Lips pursed, wet and welcoming. Arthur was staring again.

"That's a good idea."

But before they could sit on the seats by the entrance, one word caught their totally undivided attention.

"…money."

Their eyes met in a heartbeat, brows pulled, questions ringing in their heads. The word had come from upstairs. Footsteps sounded above. Someone was having a conversation about money and that had both Arya and Arthur really interested.

Arya crept up the steps slowly, careful not to step on a squeaky floorboard. Three steps up and Arthur, who snuck behind her, could already hear better.

Whoever was talking was in a room, with the door wide open, careless of any wandering ears.

"They say there is a lot of profit in this," one voice was saying. His accent was clear. Posh. Rich. Probably from Saint Denis. "In Saint Denis, they say letting such an opportunity pass is a sin." There you have it.

"And how much would be my cut?" voice number two asked.

"If all goes well and the oil gets delivered to the docks," voice one said. "You are looking at ten percent."

"I want twenty."

Well, that's a fair enough negotiation.

"Fifteen."

"Deal."

Footsteps. Arya's hand found home on Arthur's chest. Heat bloomed in his body so fast and harsh that he forgot how to breathe. His skin prickled, his mind whirling. And suddenly, very suddenly, Arthur's pants became way too tight.

She pushed him down the stairs, hushing. The footsteps were right beside his ear. There was no time to hide at the bath house door to keep hearing the conversation. Arya grabbed him by the arm, eliciting burning on his skin, and hauled him into the cramped space between the stairs and, at his back, the door to the storage room.

His chest was pressed hard against hers. He could feel her breathing against him. Both his hands were on each side of her head. This close, he could see every single beauty mark on her flesh, the redness of her cheeks, and her parted lips that looked oh so inviting. When he glanced down slowly, eyes hidden under his hat, he saw, between the openings of her blouse, the curve of her breasts. Her chest was shiny with a thin layer of sweat.

It took everything in him not to carry her up to one of those rooms and give her a piece of Arthur Morgan.

"When should we be expecting you, mister?" He jerked his head back to the task at hand.

Walking down the stairs was a tall man, bald, wearing a fitted and tailored black suit. He had an intricate mustache, the kind rich men bragged about, and held a black bag in his white-gloved hand.

Behind him, the teller was scurrying along.

"Well," the rich man drawled, "you shall be expecting my men and I in three weeks. I will send a boy to let you know in advance. You should have rooms ready for us."

"Of course, sir."

"Oh, and since we'll be here for a week with our wives before the entire ordeal," the rich man added with a sly smirk, "have some girls stay at the saloon for us?"

The teller sneered. Arthur felt Arya shiver against him.

"I'll see what I can do," the teller answered vindictively. "Say hello to your wife now, kind sir."

The man bellowed a laugh. "Thank you, Miles."

Miles – the teller – disappeared in the bath house corridor as the rich man left the hotel.

Arya's eyes, so dark, met Arthur's. There was money to be made here, with Miles and this rich man from Saint Denis. This oil dealing, money laundering, rich man affair could clearly get them a good cut. Of course, details needed to be worked out. When and where was the money being handed? How could they weasel their way in and get it?

They had three weeks to find out what was happening. If this all went to hell, well, at least they tried.

"I call dibs," Arya grumbled, still pressed up against him.

Arthur cleared his throat lowly, still very aware of his now really tight pants. "Dibs?"

She looked at him from under her brows. "You and I, dibs," she said. "We get this thing. No one else. Right?"

"Oh, right, yes," Arthur babbled.

Just then, they saw Karen saunter down the steps. She stopped at the bottom, counted four five-dollar bills, rolled them up, and stuck them between her generous bosom.

Then she slowly turned and met Arthur's eyes. Then Arya's.

A smile stretched on the blond woman's lips.

"Well," she breathed cockily, "the sight of you two makes me want to go at it all over again."

Arya pushed herself out of the tight space and grumbled, "Gross, Karen."

Arthur hung back, wondering if Arya had said that because of the pure raunchiness of what Karen had said or because it was him.

Did he stink?


	6. CHAPTER FIVE: A DIFFERENT KIND OF LONELY

**If you guys have an idea of what's "wrong" with Arya, please, have a guess in the reviews.**

 **To those that favorited, reviewed, and followed, big hugs and kisses.**

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE: A DIFFERENT KIND OF LONELY

 _I bow down to pray_  
 _I try to make the worst seem better_  
 _Lord, show me the way_  
 _To cut through all his worn out leather_

As soon as they had made it back to Horseshoe Overlook, Arya was rushing across camp. Arthur hot on her heels, following her, couldn't keep the smile off his face. She went straight to Hosea, who was bent over a few pieces of paper.

"Hosea!" Her voice was filled with joy and something that she hadn't felt in a long time. Eagerness.

The young woman and Hosea had been quite the pair ever since her arrival within the gang. She was curious and asked a lot of questions. He was happy to teach and loved her eager demeanor. Often, she would spend the night curled into herself, perched beside Hosea, listening to whatever story he had in store for her. Sometimes he'd show her photographs. Other times, he'd show her maps.

"Hosea, I think we've got something good!"

When the man lifted his head, he was met with her smile; bright and enthusiastic. The sun was setting behind him – orange and bright – and as he got to his feet, the light behind him seemed to shift along with him.

"What is it?" he asked.

Arya beamed. It had been so long since she felt on the cusp of something this big. She didn't mind that she was smiling so long and so fully. She didn't mind that Arthur was staring. She cared even less that Hosea seemed astonished to see the pair of them together like this.

"I think we discovered something good in Valentine," the girl went on. "The clerk at the Hotel – Miles – is harboring some big fancy boys from Saint Denis, who will be trafficking oil."

Hosea scratched the bottom of his chin, a gesture that resembled Arthur's way of contemplating. "You want to do a scam?" Hosea asked, blue eyes down to slits in concentration.

"I know we need to work out the details," Arya answered. "But this sounds good, right?"

Hosea looked over at Arthur. The former seemed to be gaging just how good the entire ordeal was by Arthur's facial expression. After a second of silent observation, Arthur just shrugged. "She's onto something," he grumbled.

"That man, from Saint Denis," she eagerly pressed, "he said that his men and their wives will be coming by in three weeks. They'll stay for a week, and once they have the oil, they'll ride down to the docks on the Saint Denis coast. That's where the money will be."

Hosea's entire face lit up. Wrinkles split at his eyes and creased around his mouth, but despite his old age, he looked stunning against the orange backdrop of the sky. "A good ol' fashion money scam," he beamed. "You guys will need me to work out some details before, and to ask around those I know in Valentine. You should also assemble a team. We need people to be those fake oil receivers in Saint Denis. We also need to know to who they are selling the oil to."

Arya's heart was hammering. Her cheeks hurt with smiling so hard, and the insides of her palms itched with anticipation. "So this could work?"

Hosea laughed. "This is _definitely_ goin' to work."

She nodded so hard she feared her head would spin off her body. "Thank you," she breathed. Hosea shook his head and waved her off, sitting back down at his table.

Later that night, she found herself sitting at the edge of the cliff. A small fire crackled at her feet, her legs outstretched towards the warmth, her back pressed against the trunk of a tree. Beside her, on each side respectively, was Sadie and Arthur. Above them, stars sprinkled like salt along the darkness of the sky. In front of them, the vastness of the world, the drop of the cliff, and the sweet breath of the wind.

They had shared some stew. They had shared some quiet and quick jokes. Arya was content with them both at her side. She wasn't one to express fondness, but she would gladly say that their company made her feel safe.

Arthur grumbled as he got to his feet.

"Old man's goin' to bed," Sadie joked. She was stretched out on her side, leaning on her elbow.

"I ain't even that old," Arthur answered, his voice deep in his chest. In the darkness, with the soft glow of the flames, he looked young. Arya stole a glance at his face; shadow of a beard, sharp jawline, high cheekbones. He had the rare wrinkle around his eyes, but his sun-reddened skin didn't have any evidence of old age.

"Says the man who grumbles as hard as Hosea to get to his feet," Sadie mocked again, throwing her head back to laugh. Arya smiled, picturing Hosea as he always was, grumbling about painful knees.

"I'm just grumblin' because I'm tired!" Arthur protested. When he saw that both women were having none of his shit tonight, he shook his head. "Ah, leave me alone."

Arya laughed. Arthur's eyes snapped to hers quickly, and she caught the look of curiousness that crossed his features. "Just admit you're an old man, Mr. Morgan," she chuckled.

"I'll admit it when I'm dead," he fussed. Arya watched him wobble on his feet slightly, readjust his hat, and wave. "You ladies have yourselves a good night now."

Sadie scoffed. "Sleep well, Arthur."

"Night," Arya mumbled.

His retreating footsteps were the sounds of scrunched leaves under boots. Arya kept pace with his breathing until it disappeared in the darkness, in his tent.

"You know he likes you, right?"

Arya's head snapped to the side, black eyes meeting Sadie. The latter was now curled into herself, staring right into the flames. "What?" Arya asked, clearing her throat awkwardly.

"He's sweet on you," Sadie added, meeting the other woman's eyes with a wicked grin.

"Arthur?" Disbelief made Arya's voice sound high-pitched.

Sadie rolled her eyes. "Who else?" The fire crackled as silence took over for an instant. "He definitely fancies you."

Arya shook her head, an elfish grin on her lips. "We're friends," she tried to justify.

"I don't think _he_ knows that," Sadie answered bluntly.

Arya shrugged. Shook her head. Curled her legs in defensively. Sadie was one of the only people that she trusted among Arthur and Hosea. Everyone else… well, she knew.

Sadie and Arya being friends didn't mean that Arya liked having someone poke around her life, nonetheless, her romantic life.

"I think he's just lonely," she whispered, avoiding Sadie's glare. "If you weren't a widow, he'd probably fancy you too."

"He might be lonely," Sadie answered after waving the other girl off. "But lonely men think with what hangs between their legs. They only come to you when they don't want to be alone. And usually, _that_ leads to some sort of physical contact. But Arthur's loneliness is different. He… he longs."

Arya could feel heat bloom in her chest. Anger. Fear. It mixed like mud, and her breathing became ragged, and the more she thought about it, about _him_ , the more she saw it. The longing. The yearning.

"He's a sad man," she said, her voice sounding like a dead end. A conclusion.

Sadie scoffed. "He ain't sad when he's with you."

* * *

Day break was like any other. John, Bill, and Arthur had gone hunting for the midday stew. Grimshaw and some ladies were fussing around for chores. Pearson had some leftover meat he was hanging to dry. Dutch and Molly hadn't left their tent yet. Abigail was sitting on a log by the edge of the cliff, Jack hanging on her knees as she tried to give his hair a good brush. Lice tended to spread fast in these parts.

Everything was normal. Everything was quiet.

Arya was in her tent when she heard the first yells. They weren't screams of help or alarm. They were screams of astonishment and fear.

The girl rose from her bed, where she'd been reading, enjoying the morning coolness before the heat came in. She rushed out, dressed in black pants and a matching black union shirt. Her eyes, as dark as night, searched the grounds around her.

Pearson had stopped hanging the meats and was wobbling strangely away from his wagon. At the entrance to camp, where Pearson was headed, three horses stood away from their usual spot. Arya saw Abigail, wailing, with Grimshaw holding Jack back from whatever had happened. Beside them, on every side, was everyone else.

"John, you idiot!" Abigail yelled, and Arya saw her hand fly and land, the sound of skin on skin echoing.

Javier burst out laughing.

"It ain't his fault, Abigail!" Bill came crashing out of the crowd, front of his checkered shit bloodied. Dried crimson cracked on his neck and hands.

Someone was hurt.

For a brief, a very brief instant, Arya's eyes searched for Arthur. She couldn't find him, what with everyone crowding around the horses.

The smell of blood had the horses whinnying and stamping their hooves harshly onto the grassland. Arya's first instinct was to get everyone out of their way.

"Move away!" she ordered, and the ease with which she slid into this role, of leader, felt almost foreign. She pushed people out of the way, out of the horses' way, and found Arthur. He was holding John up by the waist, the latter looking sickly and deathly pale. One look, a once over, brought Arya to the conclusion of what the hell was going on.

John's hand was covered in blood. Crimson oozed out and dribbled onto the grass at his feet. Arthur's own hands, up to his wrist, were smeared in red. The front of his shirt was speckled, as if he'd been in the very near vicinity of what had happened to John.

"What happened?" Arya asked, stepping forward to examine the wound. John's hand was mangled, as if bitten, but none of his fingers looked badly hurt.

"The idiot decided to have a hand-to-hand combat with a bear," Arthur grumbled.

"Yeah, an idiot, that's what you are, John Marston!" Abigail cried from behind.

Arya turned. Stonefaced and calm, she said, "I'm going to need you all to move back. We have to get him somewhere warm and quiet. All this fussing isn't going to help him." Abigail seemed to be personally vexed by the young woman's statement. She fumed, picked up Jack, and scrambled away.

"The boy don't need to see just how much of a fool his father is!" she screamed.

John, in his state, didn't seem to care at all. His head of dark and messy hair hung low, his chin grazing his chest. Form all the blood loss, Arya didn't know just how long he had.

Quickly, she undid the scarf around her neck. She tied it tightly around John's affected wrist.

"Let's get him to lie down," she ordered to Arthur. "Miss Grimshaw, I need a bucket of clean and warm water. I need clean cloth and keep it coming. No one is bothering me, okay?"

Grimshaw, frowning, said, "Who put you in charge?"

"Does anyone know how to fix John's mangled hand?" Arya challenged back. "Does anyone here know how to make sure he can use his hand and his fingers again? Didn't think so. I got this."

Dutch appeared suddenly, while Grimshaw scurried off to pertain to Arya's many requests. Dutch seemed out of his wits. He tried cajoling John, but the latter was in and out of consciousness, leaning heavily on Arthur.

"Oh, dear boy," Dutch mumbled. "What can I do to help?"

Arya wrapped one of her arms around John's waist to help Arthur carry the injured man to her tent. "Have someone bring me small wooden sticks and a sewing kit."

Dutch grumbled something, but Arya didn't hear. John was heavier than he looked and carrying him was harder than she thought.

When they got to her tent, she made Arthur lay her newest patient onto her bed. She unrolled the flaps and closed them, so no one could see in and she could have all the peace she needed.

"Arthur," she commanded, "bring me a stool."

He left without a word, and for the first time, she was alone with John. She could asses his wound properly.

The center of his hand was bitten through and through. She had no idea if the bones had been touched, moved, or crushed. She hoped not the latter, because that meant John would never recuperate fully. His fingers were mangled, but it looked mostly like claw marks. Thick gashes, the meat red and burning, the bone opened and exposed. His wrist was bruised and bloodied with a few marks, but she suspected it was more a sprain than a broken wrist.

She had a lot of work.

Arthur came back with the stool. She sat beside John and waited. Grimshaw came and went a few times. She brought first the cloth, then the water, and lastly, she brought a needle and a roll of thread. She left without a word.

Arthur was the only one that Arya allowed to stay.

"How are you going to fix it?" he asked, as he watched the girl examine the wound.

"Do you have whiskey on you?" she asked. After a few moments, Arthur handed her a half-filled bottle. She took it graciously, took a swig, and poured a generous amount of it all over John's mangled hand.

The injured man woke with a howl of pain so great that it resonated painfully in Arya's ears. "There he is," Arthur grumbled, taking the bottle from Arya's hands and having a taste of it as well.

"What the hell!" John screamed. He was trying to curl his hand in defensively, but Arya held it down.

"I'm going to help you," she was saying, but John was shaking, tears of pain in the corner of his eyes, his entire face contorted in effort.

Arthur came around and held John down by the shoulders.

"John!" Arya demanded her patient's attention. "This is going to hurt like a bitch, but I'm going to fix you. You need to stay still.

By then, John's entire body was trembling. He was white and weak from blood loss, and Arya didn't doubt that sooner or later, he would lose consciousness again.

"Arthur, put this between his teeth," she said, handing the man a wad of cloth. Arthur frowned, seemed puzzled, but when he saw Arya begin to toy with John's hand, he stuffed the wad into John's mouth.

The girl, bent over in concentration, blood sticky on her fingers, uncurled John's fingers. He screamed behind his gag, thrashed under Arthur's hold. She picked up some more cloth, damped it in warm water, and slowly began washing the wound.

Against the sharp screams of John, Arya explained what she was doing to Arthur. "I'm going to wash the wound," she said. "I used the alcohol to sterilize it and my hands. I'm going to do by best to sew him back up, but I'm not sure if the bones in his hand, here, are crushed or unaffected. I would need… never mind. Then I'm going to use some sticks to make sure the bones, if crushed or broken, heal in their right place. My priority right now is to stop the bleeding. Once he's all sewn up and I'm all done with the sticks, the key is to keep him fed and hydrated."

By then, she had washed most of his wound. John was still bleeding badly, but she had gotten the dirt and grass out of his injury. She poured more whiskey onto it, and with that, John was out like a light.

Arthur relaxed and walked back to where he'd been before; behind Arya, watching over her head.

Slowly, painfully, she started to sow John's hand back. She'd swab at it with a damp cloth sometimes, or alcohol, and then go right back in. She was so concentrated that she didn't even notice the whispers outside of her tent, or the growing darkness around her, or the heavy hunger in her stomach. Dark, swan eyes were focused solely on the bleeding and horrible gash. Her mind was a haze of medicine. She didn't even feel anything around or in her.

She carefully placed his fingers and hand upside down to sew his palm up. Then she spread his hand over a small pillow and began working with the sticks. Arya placed them each side of John's fingers and tied them with rope. She used more cloth as cautionary measure on his sprained wrist, which had turned black and purple – most likely just a big bruise.

She gave the overall wound a good wash before settling back in her seat.

The silence seemed to fill her as she stared at John's hand. It wasn't pretty. Dried blood still crusted the sewn-up gashes, and the thread itself was hard from blood, and was a sharp contrast against the pale skin. The hand was slightly swollen and red, but nothing alarming to the young woman.

"I'm done," she said. Her voice seemed foreign after all this time.

"Is he goin' to be alright?" Arthur asked. The sound of his voice, for a short moment, was comforting.

"Yeah," she said, nodding. "Go get Abigail, will you?"

Not long after, Abigail shuffled in. Her eyes were red with tears, swollen, and her face was splotchy. She wore a thick cotton gown and a thicker shawl over her shoulders. Her usually spotless black hair was tousled into a bun at the base of her neck.

"Is he okay?" she hiccupped.

Arya nodded sternly, grabbed the woman's hand, and said, "If he starts to tremble, to have chills, nausea, or he starts to get really hot, you come find me. If he starts to hallucinate or vomit or to sweat profusely, you come find me. If his wound becomes black or blood red or if puss starts to come out of it, you come find me, understand?"

The dark-haired woman looked confused. She staggered on her feet, sat on the edge of the bed, and wept. "What's puss?" she asked.

"White, creamy substance," Arya answered patiently.

"Why would his hand go black?" Abigail continued, still weeping, her face in her hands.

"That would be gangrene."

"Gangrene?"

"Listen, Abigail," Arya said, going to her knees. "If anything appears out of the ordinary, you come find me." She was holding the older woman by the shoulders soothingly, something Arya rarely did.

"O-okay," Abigail answered, sniffing and wiping her tears.

"The important thing is that you keep him fed and hydrated," Arya counseled. "He needs to eat and drink water. Not alcohol. Water."

Abigail nodded. Lowly, she murmured, "Thank you."

"I'll come back to check on him tomorrow morning," Arya assured, still on her knees, still holding the other woman. "I'll make sure he's able to use his hand again."

Again, Abigail nodded. She shifted away from Arya and closer to her husband.

Arya stood, and when she left the tent to breathe in the cold night air, that's when the exhaustion hit her. Hunger growled in her stomach and she could feel the dried walls of her throat aching for water.

Arthur stepped out to join her. "You can have my tent for the night," he offered. "You and Sadie."

Arya smiled tiredly. "That's kind of you."

They got stew together and walked around camp assuring everyone that John was going to be fine. Dutch asked about the mobility of his hand. In truth, Arya was scared that John would never fully recover the use of his hand, but she confidently told Dutch that she'd work towards full mobility. Grimshaw and Karen, stoneface and cold, asked about the well being of John, but beneath their demeanor, Arya could see the worry on their faces.

Arya and Arthur spent most of the night reassuring their friends. Bill felt guilty for not killing the bear, but Arthur took the blame right off his shoulders.

"You didn't tell me exactly what happened," Arya asked, sitting – finaly! – on a stump in front of a dying fire. Arthur sat on the ground beside her, finished his stew, and let the bowl clink beside him.

"Went chasin' after a bear," he started. "I was on my horse, lookin' for clues. Bill was wandering around on the rocks for some reason. Then I hear this big roar and sound, like somethin' crashin' through the trees. I go runnin'. Then John's screamin', and when I get to him, he's squarin' up like he wants to fight the thing. Obviously, get's wrecked. Bill shoots at it, and the thing just runs away."

Arya smiled and huffed, "There's only John to square up to a bear."

Arthur laughed through his nose, but then his face went cold as he stared into the fire. Arya saw the shift and wondered why her own chest ached. "I thought he was goin' to die," he admitted lowly.

"But he didn't," Arya said.

"Yeah, because of Bill."

"It's not your fault, Arthur."

"I know," he said awkwardly. "It's just… I just stood there, you know?"

Arya's eyes glazed in empathy. "Sometimes shock takes away your ability to make decisions."

"But that never happened to me before," Arthur objected. "I've always had my finger on the trigger. I never hesitated. Never. And then, when it comes to savin' John's life, a moment more important than many I've had to fire my weapon for, I can't."

Arya nodded in understanding. She shifted on her log awkwardly. Sentimental conversations were not her forte. "You… you love John," she mumbled. "Moments of quick action, crisis moments, change when it involves someone you're afraid of losing."

Arthur was quiet for a moment. The young woman stared at the fire but was very aware of Arthur's presence beside her. After a pause, he said, "You're right."

A sigh left the woman's lips. "You're a good man, Arthur," she mumbled.

He grumbled, groaned something, and then sighed. "How do you know all this doctor stuff anyway?"

"You think I'm a witch?" she joked.

Arthur laughed and the sound was music to Arya's ears after all this silence. "If I had a right mind, I'd think so," Arthur mused. "But I ain't gonna burn you at the stake, young lady."

Smiling, Arya offered, "I learned from my mother. She was a doctor."

Frowning, Arthur turned his blue gaze onto Arya's profile. "A woman doctor?"

"Uh- no, I mean, yes, but uh-," Arya stammered, pushed her hair behind her ears. "She was – uh – a healer. You know. A herbalist. But she knew about surgery."

Arthur huffed. He didn't seem convinced by her answer. "You said a lot of words back there that I don't know," he grumbled, returning his eyes to the fire. "Your mother must have been a hell of a doctor then."

"She was."

The crackling of the fire took precedence. Arya's mind was whirling. Images swooping in to disturb the peace she was staggeringly trying to keep. The faces of her mother and father oozed in and out of memory, but just like her brother, they were fading.

"You never told me what happened in Delaware," Arthur said, breaking the silence. "Why you left. Why it was just you and your brother."

Arya stiffened and suddenly, she was cold. She wanted to leave. The drying blood on her hands was not John's but another man's. Her throat was closing up.

"It's not something I discuss," she all but choked out.

Under the watchful and curious stare of Arthur, the brunette got to her feet and scurried away. The night cloaked the rising tears in her eyes and the way she curled into herself protectively. When she burst into Arthur's tent, she flopped onto the bed. The smell of him – pinewood, fire smoke, and river water – made her mind burn with too many thoughts. Tears welled and poured over her cheeks. She curled into a ball.

The last thing she was conscious of before she fell asleep was the deep smell of Arthur Morgan all around her.


	7. CHAPTER SIX: WE GOT OURSELVES A DOCTOR

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CHAPTER SIX: WE GOT OURSELVES A DOCTOR

 _The flames lick at my feet_  
 _Their hearts full of hate_  
 _What they don't understand, they condemn_  
 _What they can't comprehend must meet its end_

The next morning, Arya woke up with crusted tears in the corner of her eyes. The smell, that she had prominently figured out was Arthur's natural musk, still clung to her as she stumbled out of his tent. The early morning dew still lingered on the grass, catching and glittering in the bright rising sun. The air was cold, but the young woman knew that with the day moving forward, the heat would settle in uncomfortably.

She almost raced across camp to her and Sadie's tent, that was now being inhabited by John and Abigail. Upon entering, the caramel-haired woman was met with the sight of a sleeping Abigail, sitting on the stool and bent over her husband. The latter was sleeping.

"Abigail," Arya coughed, clearing her throat awkwardly. "Wake up."

The dark-haired wife shook herself awake, light gaze sweeping the tent to find her husband. "Is everything alright?" she asked.

Arya hummed. "I'm going to change his bandages," she said. "Would you mind getting me some clean cloth and warm water?"

"He woke up durin' the night and ate a bit of stew," Abigail said, matter-of-fact, as she got to her feet. "He didn't talk, but he seemed in a great deal of pain."

"That's to be expected."

The two young women exchanged spots. Abigail stood by her husband's head, while Arya sat on the warm stool and started to unwrap the bandage that was now darkened by blood.

"His temperature remained the same?" Arya asked, voice low in concentration.

"Nothin' out of the ordinary," Abigail breathed. "Just like you said."

Arya hummed again. "The bandages, Abigail," she reminded the other woman. After a few moments of hesitation, John's wife all but ran out of the tent.

Once John's hand was completely unwrapped, Arya assessed the healing wound. The sticks were in place, the stitches seemed to not have broken, and his wrist was already less swollen.

"Howdy."

John winced as he awoke, smiling awkwardly as he made eye contact with the girl sitting at his side.

"You don't look so great, Mr. Marston," Arya joked, her eyes going back to his hand.

"I wouldn't talk, madam," he groaned back.

He tried to sit up, against Arya's instructions, and lay back down.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Like a man who tried fightin' a bear," he answered comically.

The girl shook her head and smiled. "What in the world were you thinking?"

He shrugged, winced when his hand grazed his pants, and said, "Ah, when do I ever think?"

That had them both laughing, as Abigail burst into the tent with a bucket full of steaming water and clean cloth.

"Who gave you the right to be jokin' around, you moron?" she angrily asked.

John and Arya exchanged a raised eyebrow, and then the younger girl burst out laughing.

"And what are _you_ laughin' at?" Abigail yelled.

"Abigail, sweetheart, come on," John asked.

Abigail, fuming, glared at Arya before growling, "I'm going to get stew and water."

After Abigail left, Arya thoroughly washed John's wound. Carefully, she tended to every scratch and gash to make sure no blood was left. Then she rebandaged the wound.

"I don't want you using your hand for some time, understood?" she asked sternly, cleaning up her mess and the dirty cloth.

"Yes, ma'am," he grumbled. "How do you know this stuff anyway?"

She shrugged. "My mother and her mother before that were healers of the body," she explained. "It was my legacy to learn."

When she was done cleaning up, she stood, stared at John, and realized he was uneasy. "Arya," he mumbled. "Will I ever be able to use my hand again?"

Arya's mouth pursed and she felt the pang of guilt and pity fill her up like acid being poured down her throat. Sighing, she dropped the bucket and took a seat on the stool again. "Honestly," she began, "I'm confident that you will. Maybe not like before. But I'll work with you. We'll use a playball to get your bones and muscles used to mobility again. It will hurt, but you will have to go through the exercises. Maybe you'll gain full mobility without pain again. Maybe your right hand will have damage and will hurt. I'm not sure."

He nodded solemnly. Arya got back to her feet, picked up the bucket, and walked out. She was met with Abigail eavesdropping, who didn't care and rushed into the tent, and went to Pearson's wagon.

The girl disposed of the water and threw the cloth into the fire. She took a generous bowl of morning stew, downed a cup of coffee, and waddled out towards the edge of the cliff, where her friend Sadie was waiting.

"Heard you were a doctor now!" the blonde woman hollered once Arya sat beside her.

Arya scoffed and shook her head. She was getting tired of explaining the same story, so she just shrugged. "I got a thing for injured people," she joked.

Sadie rose her brows, and before Arya could notice, she had given the blonde woman an opportunity to bring up a certain subject.

"He asked about you this mornin' before headin' off," Sadie sing-songed.

Arya rolled her eyes. "Where did he run off to?"

Sadie shrugged. "He went to meet up Javier, Charles, and Bill at the saloon."

"Well, that doesn't sound like a good thing."

The women spent most of the morning in each other's company. Sadie talked about her husband, Jake, in the most lovable tone. Arya listened, if only half-heartedly. She had never married, never dated, and rarely found interest in boys. When her brother and her lived in Valentine, she had been approached many times by suitable bachelors. Her brother had been approached, asked for the hand of his sister, but had promptly announced to those men that he was not responsible for her.

Their mistress, with whom they lived with in that stocky cottage a few miles north of Valentine, had often asked Arya about her celibacy. Germanotta, Italian born and married an American, was always bringing up the subject of Arya's ringless hand. The girl never saw a problem with it. She didn't like dresses, hated cooking, and didn't want to mommy a grown man.

Germanotta was not pleased. She, who had been married and had been widowed before being able to fall pregnant, could not see the sense in Arya's celibacy.

"You know what she used to tell me?" Arya said to Sadie. "She used to say that men saw a challenge in me, you know, because I dressed like them. Thank God I was pretty though!"

Sadie laughed. "My husband and I used to share everythin'," she replied. "He said I couldn't keep up if I wore a dress."

The two women burst out laughing again, leaning into each other.

"You know," Sadie rasped, "that's the most I've heard you talk about your life."

Arya coughed and all signs of pleasing left her face. "I know."

"What was his name?" Sadie asked carefully.

Arya's stare met Sadie's, black on blue. "Who?"

"Your brother."

Speaking his name was something she'd never did since his death. For some odd reason, after Colm O'Driscoll and his boys made sure she and her brother would never have a good life, Arya hadn't spoken her brother's name. Hadn't even thought it.

"Sadie…" the girl trailed off with a sigh.

"What did they do to you?" Sadie asked lowly. "What happened anyway?"

"Sadie." Sternly, Arya stood and waved off her friend. "I don't need one of my only friends here to doubt me, please."

Sadie nodded, bit the inside of her cheek, and stood too. "Alright, alright," she cooed. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

A commotion, close to a _brouhaha_ , caught the women's attention. Arya groaned loudly. Between John's accident and spending the entire night sewing him back up, she had no patient for anything else.

She saw Arthur, Bill, Charles, and Javier ride into camp. They were laughing, joking, and all of them were sporting bruises and cuts. Arya breathed in sharply when she saw Arthur. He was covered in mud, some of it drying, most of it dripping wetly onto the ground as he hopped off his horse. He winced and cradled his ribs, and as Arya approached with Sadie on her heels, she saw the bruises and bloody cuts on his face.

"What in the hell?" Sadie asked.

Bill was laughing. "Arthur here tried fightin' the biggest boy in the county!"

Arthur growled, "I _did_ fight him. I won."

Arya approached Javier, who was bleeding from the nose. "And what happened to you?" she asked gravely.

Javier shrugged. "Bill started a fight in the bar."

"Fuck off, Javier, it ain't my fault!" Bill defended in that baritone voice of his. He pointed an accusing finger at Charles. "This idiot threw at chair at the barman!"

"I threw a chair?" Charles asked, and when Arya found him, he was limping his way around the horses.

"And before Arthur could finish the big hunk," Bill continued, breathless, "some do-gooder creep stepped in and shooed us away!"

"Well thank God he did!" Sadie shouted back. "Ya'll look like a bunch of shit-covered-crackheads!"

"I'd watch what you say to us, miss, we just came back from a fight," Javier drawled, tipping his hat towards the blonde woman.

Arya, fuming, hands in fists, groaned. "You're honestly the worst men in the world," she growled. Then, shaking her head to regain her composure, she added, "Charles, how bad is your ankle?"

Charles examined his foot. "I wager it's just a sprain," he answered.

"Good," the girl said. "Walk it off… but don't put too much pressure on it." Turning to Javier, she asked, "Is there any other thing other than that cut?"

Javier shook his head.

"Wash it with warm water," Arya growled. "Bill, anything alarming on you?"

"My pride is bruised," he cooed.

Arya rolled her eyes. "Have Karen take care of you." To that, Sadie laughed. Bill wobbled away with Charles and Javier in tow, all of them complaining. For men who had supposedly fought in a saloon fight, they sure had baby-like wails.

"And you?" Arya asked Arthur, crossing her arms over her chest. "I suppose you've got cracked ribs and some cuts that need stitching?"

Arthur's mouth went round as he looked to Sadie for back up. The woman put her hands up. "You ain't gettin' out of this one, big boy," she said. She walked away with a knowing smile.

Arthur tried putting his hands up in surrender, but winced, and then howled lowly in his throat.

"Okay, come on," Arya ordered, waving him after her. He followed her to his tent, where she made him sit on the edge of the bed. She hesitated before saying, "I'm going to need you to take off your shirt."

Arthur's brows shot right up. "Excuse me?"

Arya sighed and shook her head. "If you have internal bleeding, I need to know!" She was fussing and her cheeks were growing red, but if he had been badly hurt, she needed to see.

Arthur cleared his throat as he slowly and shyly – his own cheeks were tinged with crimson – untucked his checkered black dress shirt from his pants. Then he shook off his suspenders and unbuttoned his shirt. When he was done, he looked up at the girl for confirmation, and when he saw her stone face, he quickly shrugged off the entire garment.

The girl leaned in and examined the right side of his abdomen. She couldn't lie and not look at his stomach and chiseled chest. Defined muscles, however, didn't stop her from prodding with her fingertips at his ribs. He jolted in pain, hissed behind his teeth, and groaned. Arya took this moment of inattention from his part to slide her eyes along his shoulders. Strong, full, and round.

"Got a diagnosis for me?" he growled.

She prodded more with her fingers, feeling along the ridges of his ribs. Her stomach was alive with butterflies and heat spread in her body like hot melting metal. She was touching him. Flesh to flesh.

"Nothing seems broken," she grumbled, trying to keep her composure of angry comrade. "If you start coughing, come find me."

Arya turned politely away as Arthur got dressed. She tried to even out her breathing, to cool down her face, to stop her body from buzzing.

In truth, she was marveling at herself. She'd never – _never_ \- felt this way for a man before. She'd had the occasional sputter of heat in her belly once or twice, but never this full-on assault on her senses. She realized that she could feel his skin still on hers, smell him even from this far away, and her head was filled with hope. Of what? She couldn't tell.

"I would tell you to get some rest," she grumbled apathetically when he was dressed and standing, "but I know you won't listen to me."

He smiled, his blue eyes glittering, his full mouth spread over his teeth. "I'll take your word for it, don't you worry."

Then he left. He left her standing there and she didn't know what to do, so she followed. The sun by then had made its ascent into the sky and was shining, hot and bright. Hosea all but ran up to them with both worry and caution on his face.

"You alright, Arthur?" he asked. He gave Arya a nod in greeting.

"Ah, I'll be alright," Arthur grumbled. "Besides, we've apparently acquired ourselves a doctor."

Hosea smiled. "It would seem so."

"Don't take it for granted, though," Arya mused, but felt so belittled. After that stupid, school girl moment in the tent with Arthur, she felt small. And she didn't like it.

She made a mental promise to never feel that way again. To avoid the reasons that make her feel like that.

"Would you be up to hunt a big bad bear?" Hosea asked them. He was smiling now, convinced of Arthur's well-being, and now filled with conviction.

"Uh, hold on!" They were interrupted by a small stout man with greying hair and a small bent-over back. Arya had come to know this man as Strauss, the money-lending schemer that nobody seemed to like, not even Dutch. Arya's skin crawled whenever she spotted him, always bent over his big book. He seemed non-threatening from afar, even from up close, but he had rendered families poor by just the stroke of his feather and ink.

"Strauss," Arthur grumbled. "What's goin' on?"

"Herr Morgan," the old man wheezed, "I need you to pay some of our… uh, clients a visit."

"Why me?" Arthur asked.

Strauss looked up from over his glasses, his eyes going from Arthur to Arya. "Well, you're the most threatening people in camp," he concluded, as if evident, "and our clients are going to need a little _convincing_."

Arya crossed her arms and leaned on one hip. "Why would we need to convince them?" she asked.

"Because they owe us a lot of money," Strauss answered. "And they've been well overdue on their payment."

Arthur sighed and seemed to be considering this whole ordeal. Hosea was looking at Arya, sharing a look that she couldn't quite understand.

"Alright," Arthur conceded, "give me the names."

"You might want to look at this particular feller right here," Strauss began eagerly, flipping the book so all three could see. "Thomas Downes. His farm is South-West of Valentine. Should be easy."

Again, Arthur sighed. "Alright," he gave in. "Arya, you in?"

The girl felt the wrongness of the situation; money lending and stealing from the poor. But she'd seen the ledger. Although, all she cared about was getting her hands on Colm, she also didn't want to starve to death. And most of all, she wanted to keep an eye on Arthur. If his bruised ribs were more than that, she needed to know as soon as possible.

"Sure," she said.

"Hosea?"

"I'll sit this one out," the man answered.

"Okay," Arthur grumbled. "We'll head down there tomorrow."


	8. CHAPTER SEVEN: WHAT IT WOULD BE LIKE

**I tried to make this one as long as possible, because it's Thomas Downes, and we all know just how special he is to Arthur... kidding. Word count is 4708, but expect a longer chapter next one.**

 **I really can't wait for y'all to read the oil scam mission. It's brilliant.**

 **Anyway. To all those who favorited and followed and reviewed, you have no idea how much that means to me. Thank you.**

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CHAPTER SEVEN: WHAT WOULD IT BE LIKE

 _Sky high in Colorado, your lips pressed against the bottle_  
 _Swearing on a bible, baby, I'd never leave ya_  
 _I remember how bad I need ya, when I taste Tequila_

Hosea was a man who knew how to squeeze out information from anyone and any place. He genuinely liked Arya's plan for the oil scam, but it evidently lacked detail. Hence, why he spent some of his days hanging around the Valentine saloon and hotel, fishing for information. He presented himself as a wealthy farm owner, out to invest in some good money to expand his fields. Valentine's people were aloof, and most had no vigor with money or finances.

He caught the eye of the famous hotel clerk, Miles. The clerk, being a big mouth after a few drinks, poured out the entire oil investment to Hosea.

In roughly two weeks, five men and their wives would visit Valentine. These men, lead by a man named Allan Schmidt, worked for the infamous Leviticus Cornwall, and had hired guns under their thumb. These hired guns were bringing down oil barrels from Cornwall's oil field in the very north. Cornwall needed protection against any outlaws or gangs who had eyes for the oil or just simply a good killing. Schmidt had agreed to lend his hired guns to Cornwall in exchange for profit. In return, Cornwall insisted that Schmidt and his investors literally follow the money, and spend their time in Valentine, with Cornwall paying every expense.

To Hosea, that seemed sketchy. A bunch of investors doing the dirty work that they had hired men to do in the first place? Why was Leviticus Cornwall insisting on having the investors stay with the oil?

As Hosea soon learned from more eager mouths in the saloon, Cornwall wanted to catch anyone trying to steal his oil. The hired guns were actually under Cornwall's money and not Schmidt's, who had no idea of the ploy. After Hosea asked around, he learned that, yes, there was actually money waiting at the Saint Denis docks, but also twenty armed men.

He pocketed the news and headed back to Horseshoe Overlook. When he arrived, having spent three days away, he was surprised to see John on his back with a freshly mangled hand. He was more surprised to see Arya, one of the bright minds he was sure would one day be great, sitting at the injured man's side.

"Do I even want to know what happened?" Hosea asked, announcing himself.

Arya lifted her black eyes to meet Hosea. She smiled broadly. Her hair was in a low braid that swept across her back. Lone, stray hairs curled at the sides of her face. Hosea wouldn't lie and say she wasn't a beautiful young lady, but there was savagery behind her dark eyes, a boldness that wasn't proud and more viciousness behind her easy-going expression.

"John tried to fight a bear," she responded, smiling up at Hosea.

"Goodness, John, why?"

John shrugged, winced, and grumbled, "I don't wanna talk about it."

Hosea laughed. He took off his hat to address Arya. "We've gotta talk," he said.

She nodded, lips pinched in concentration as she examined John's hand. Hosea could see the amazing stitch work, the sticks and cloth, and how Arya was washing it very carefully. When she saw him looking, she said, "If I don't clean it every day, it might get infected."

Hosea pursed his mouth. "Will he ever get to use it again?"

She shrugged, looked between John and Hosea with an empty look. "I hope so."

Abigail was not far off. Hosea saw her sitting by the cliff, holding Jack to her chest, and swinging him from side to side. Hosea had no doubt that anxiety was eating at her, and playing and consoling Jack was probably the only thing that was keeping her from tearing John's head off.

Arya finished up with John, said her instructions, and left with Hosea. They walked along the edge of the cliff, far away from Abigail. Arya was sporting a dark green woolen shirt, black trousers that hung low on her hips, and knee-high boots. At her hip was a long hunting knife, and on the other side, a revolver. She looked quite the part, thought Hosea.

"Where's Arthur?" he asked.

He didn't miss how Arya's cheeks went slightly pink after doing a quick scan of the camp. "He's here somewhere," she answered. "We're supposed to go collect some money later today."

Hosea nodded. "Well, I'll tell you then anyway." He told her about everything he'd heard in the town. She nodded along, experiencing the same feelings of unease as he had for certain information. Hosea marveled at the way her mind worked; quick and efficient. She worked with Hosea in finding loopholes in the entire thing, until Hosea proposed the only viable plan.

"This is what I got," he said. "You and Arthur pose as husband and wife. He comes in with a lot of money, and I mean, an amount they won't be able to match. While he's triflin' with the boys, you collect all you've got from the ladies. You'll need to impress them, as much as Arthur will need to impress Schmidt and his men. Once you guys are in and Schmidt allows Arthur to invest, it's smooth sailin' from there. All we need to know is which docks in Saint Denis the oil is gettin' shipped on and how many men with what kind of artillery."

Arya breathed in sharply. "We need to assemble a team for the strike in Saint Denis," she announced, nodding quickly. "They'll be guarding that money with their lives."

"This is why we need to strike the money when Schmidt and his men are leavin' Saint Denis," Hosea proposed.

Arya bit her lip. "If he even _is_ leaving."

"Exactly," Hosea said. "That's information you'll need to find. We have two options. Strike in Saint Denis, in the heart of the city, with the law right there. Or we follow them back to wherever they are and take the money there."

Arya nodded, hands on hips. "I'll talk about this with Arthur, I guess," she said, scratching the back of her neck.

Hosea smiled. "He doesn't like to play dress up," he laughed. "He might not like the whole idea of husband and wife."

Arya thought she didn't like it either. As she said goodbye to Hosea and walked across camp, she couldn't get the sour feeling out of her chest. The only way to get them in on it was to pose as a couple? She knew she lived in a man's world, and a woman investor would be beyond preposterous for those patriarchal sexists. She had called dibs on the job, with Arthur at her side. She was in no way sitting on the sidelines while he worked the entire thing. She didn't mind about splitting the earnings. She had a firm belief that whoever worked a job got equal money. She just didn't like the fact that she would sit behind and let the men play.

Also, she thought as she searched for Arthur, such a rich investor would obviously be married.

Arthur was sitting on the east side of camp, legs dangling from the cliff, bent over his journal in concentration. When he heard footsteps behind him, he snapped the book shut and quickly put it in his satchel.

"Ready to go?" Arya asked. She'd been sitting idly by for a couple of days, and a chance of doing a mission was not going to be missed.

Arthur got to his feet. "Let's go see this Downes feller."

It was midday when they left. Arya found comfort in the familiarity of a saddle between her legs, a rifle slung behind her back, and her holster heavy with a weapon. She marveled at the sound and heat of her horse under her, the roundness of Rori's abdomen under her legs. The animal had spunk and heart, but Arya was an avid rider and knew how to control her beast.

Along the way, with the sun beating down on them, Arya told Arthur about the plan Hosea had concocted. Like Hosea had said, Arthur grumbled about the entire husband and wife dress up. He hated acting, especially around those type of men.

Finally, though, after Arya convinced him it was the only way to have them both involved, he yielded. "As long as you'll have me," he joked with a casual, sideways glance at her. His horse was significantly bigger than hers and he sat at a considerable height over the young woman. Although she was not tall on her own two feet, she was not used to seeing him so elevated.

"You should know I don't make a good wife," she laughed back, tucking her chin to her chest.

He guffawed, the sound so strange. Arthur never laughed like that. This time, though, he was displaying his teeth, the dimples under his beard, and his Adam's apple as he threw his head back. Arya stared with her mouth ajar. His neck, sprayed with both the thinning of his beard and a slight sunburn, made her want to kiss it. She wanted to run her fingers along his jaw and feel the conjunction of it, the roughness of his beard and the sharpness of his skin.

Quickly, she shook herself.

They were friends. Arthur might feel some kind of weird, lonely man attraction towards a beautiful woman, but she knew he would always keep his hands to himself. He was physically attracted, she knew. Surface things. She had no right to imagine what it would really be like to be married to him.

On a whim, she asked, "You ever been married, Morgan?" Her tone came off casual, almost playful, but the look on Arthur's face turned his smile into a scowl.

"Nah," he drawled. "You?" His blue eyes, fierce and bright, found her face, and she felt scrutinized.

"Nope."

Arthur, curiously, smirked. "You're tellin' me a young lady, such as yourself," he drawled lowly, "didn't have men brawlin' for her hand?"

She laughed and shook her head. "You're exaggerating," she chuckled. "But no. There were a couple who sniffed around, but none who really caught my eye."

Arthur snorted. "I pity the bastard who does," he mumbled.

Arya's mouth hung on its hinges and her eyes went round. "Hey!"

He laughed and assured her it was just a friendly joke. Friendly.

The sun was almost setting when they reached the Downes farm. The horizon was a splash of orange, blue, and pink as they rode into the land. The temperature was low enough to give Arya chills as they left their horses by the gate surrounding the entirety of the property.

There was a figure, illuminated by the remainders of the sun, working in the small field a few yards from the cabin of a house.

"There," Arthur pointed as he headed for it. "That's surely Downes."

Arya followed, looking around the property. They were clearly poor farmers. The house had dilapidated doors and floorboards the hung off nails. There was one mule hanging by the house, but no other animals. Arya could see that beside the house, Mrs. Downes surely, had tried to grow a garden, but had not been blessed with any crops yet.

A rough cough caught Arya's attention. They were nearing Mr. Downes, and by now, he was a full man and not a shadow anymore. Thomas Downes was a small, stout, and weak man. He wore stained and muddy overalls and had a straw hat covering his head. He was plowing at the dirt, coughing, wheezing in breath after breath.

When he looked back at them in fear, Arya's eyes went wide. Her hand snatched out, she turned, and stopped Arthur in his tracks. Time slowed, heat bloomed in her hand from where she was touching him. Something in her head cracked, like thunder, and she found herself pushing against Arthur's chest.

"Arya?" he groaned. His eyes were cast low on her, where her hand was pressed harshly against his chest.

"Don't get near him," she said, her voice stone and ice cold.

Arthur frowned, closed his fingers around her wrist, and lifted it off his chest. He still clutched it in his hand when she stopped trying to push him. "What's wrong?" he asked lowly, looking around her shoulder towards the man in the field.

"He's sick, Arthur," she said.

"So?" he asked, shrugging.

She wrenched her wrist from his hand and pushed him harshly with both hands on his shoulders. "He is sick, dumbass!"

Her exclamation brought the attention of Downes. He marched towards the wooden gate and leaned against it. "Can I help you?" he called.

"Mr. Downes!" Arthur greeted, waving, trying to walk around Arya.

She grabbed his wrist and held him back. "Arthur," she gritted between clenched teeth. "Listen to me!"

"What?" he growled, angrily, his lip curled. Long gone was his easy-going expression with the full grins and laughter. He was angry.

"Do you trust me?" she whispered, looking lowly towards Downes.

Arthur's brows furrowed under the rim of his hat and he shook his head. "Yes, why?"

"That man is really sick," she whispered again. "Look, he's got bloodshot eyes, blood on his lips, and he's deathly pale. Did you hear that cough?"

Arthur sighed, put two hands on her shoulders, and came eye level with her. He saw her disturbed state; wandering eyes, heavy breathing, and the terror on her features. "Arya, it's probably just the cold givin' him the cough."

He made to go to the farmer again, who was still asking about them, but Arya struck out her arm against his chest again. "Arthur, please!" she begged. She came in front of him and put her hand out so her fingertips grazed the bullet belt across his chest. "He's got tuberculosis."

Arthur's frown was one of utter confusion. "Your mother must have been a real good doctor."

Arya punched him in the chest, which did nothing to actually hurt him. "Shut up," she growled. "You bastard. Look at him! You want to die?"

Arthur calmed down. He looked over her features. Something in him slowed, like a raging ocean in a storm finding peace. He nodded once, put his arm around her shoulders, and brought her to his side. "Okay," he said, bent down to whisper in her ear. "Didn't know I had a private nurse to hang with me."

She rolled her eyes. "Just don't get near him," she sighed, obviously relieved. "Tuberculosis is terminal. This poor man won't see winter."

Arthur shook his head. "Who even wants to see winter?"

She jabbed him in the ribs and broke free of the warmth of his arm, to her sadness. "Stop joking around," she mumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Mr. Downes!" Arthur called, hands on his holster belt, shoulders squared. Arya put her hand on her revolver. "I believe you owe us some money!"

"You're with Mr. Strauss?" the farmer asked feebly. He coughed and the sound was atrocious. Wheezing, spitting blood, Downes straightened.

"You got the money?" Arthur insisted in a voice that was all business.

"You leave my husband alone!"

A woman came hurtling by, staggering to her husband's side. Arya looked back at the open door of the cabin, where a boy lingered in equally dirty overalls.

Mrs. Downes, who was a dull woman with dusty brown hair and a sharp face, went to the gate beside her husband. She had both a worried and angered look on her face. "You leave him alone!" she said again. "He's sick!"

"Clearly," Arthur grumbled. "Okay, well since the whole family is gathered, any of ya'll got our money?"

"You will rot in hell for harassin' poor, sick men!" Mrs. Downes angrily yelled.

Arthur took a step forward. "If your husband wasn't so sick, Mrs. Downes, I'd beat the livin' shit outta him, so I'd watch your tone. I can see your boy in the cabin there, he got our money?"

"Leave us alone, you brute," she countered. "We don't have a penny to offer. My husband is sick. I've spent all we have on helpin' him."

Arya felt a pang of guilt in her stomach and soon her throat was burning. "We came for money," she drawled, but her skin was prickling with pity.

Mrs. Downes' eyes snapped to the young woman. "Oh," she growled. "You've come to intimidate us." She gestured to the weapons hanging off Arya's body.

Arya put her hands up in surrender. "We don't want to hurt you," she assured.

"But we will if we have to," Arthur followed. "We're not your idea of charity. We will come back, and we better come back to our money."

The pair left under the angered gaze of Mrs. Downes. As they walked, they could hear the mad coughing fit and blood spitting that Thomas Downes was having. Arya shivered. Her mind was whirling with the idea of mercy. Surely, they could skip the Downes? They were poor, sick, and mostly to all die from tuberculosis.

She said nothing, her mind in a daze, as she climbed onto her horse. She let Arthur lead them off the property, saying nothing about the pity in her chest and the mercy screaming in her head.

"We should camp here," Arthur said, stopping the horses in a clearing a ways off the road. Thick trees surrounded them, but the underbrush was light.

"Whatever you say," Arya grumbled, sliding off Rori and immediately unpacking her things.

Arthur noticed the aggravated tone but said nothing. He set up the tent and the fire, watched as Arya cooked some raw meat they'd brought along, and enjoyed the food in silence.

After a while, the stars were thick and the darkness was fully set in, Arthur couldn't take the silence anymore. "Look," he sighed, "I get why you're angry."

"We could show them mercy," she mumbled. She was sitting directly in front of him, her legs curled against her chest, chin resting on her knees. "We _should_ have showed mercy. For Christ's sake, Arthur, the man is going to die."

"Not my fault," Arthur answered lowly. "He still owes us money."

"Oh, really, Arthur?" she growled.

Just as she said that, a fat drop of water landed on Arthur's hat. Then on Arya's nose. They looked up, and soon, a sheet of rain was falling on them.

Arya got to her feet.

"Let's get under the tent," Arthur suggested.

"No!" she shouted back.

"Arya, c'mon!" He took two big steps and was at her side. He grabbed her bicep and hauled her against him. She was so small that her head knocked against his collarbone, and for a second, in the rain and slippery mud, they were falling.

Arthur landed on his knees, holding the girl by the hips, a reflex to keep her from falling. She was sitting on her own knees, back against his chest, her butt sitting on his crotch. They both couldn't see each other's faces. Arthur's cheeks were flaming, Arya was angrily trying to keep her emotions in check. The rain was washing against their faces, harsher by the second. Arthur felt the heat radiate from his chest, to his belly, down to his crotch, where the girl was warmly sat.

Arthur shook himself and hauled the young woman into the tent. He literally slung her onto her bedroll and closed the tent flaps. He tied them into knots while water dripped from literally everywhere on him. Once he was done, he took his hat off, shook the wet tips of his hair, and proceeded to take his weapons off.

Arya did the same. Angrily – still - she flung her rifle into the corner, unlatched her holster belt, and threw it at her feet. She sat with crossed legs, arms folded on her chest.

Arthur sighed when he saw her. "You're childish," he grumbled, sitting on his bedroll. He put his hat on the sheet and passed a hand into his hair. It was growing long. It curled ever the slightest around his ears, where it was long enough that he could push it around the shell of his ear.

"Fuck you," she said. "You know, if I hadn't been there, you would have gotten tuberculosis. You would have died. What then, Arthur?"

He looked back at her and shrugged. "Then I would have died."

She scoffed. "You're such a brave man," she cooed sarcastically. "Not afraid of dying."

"I've faced death more than I care to count," he snapped back. "I ain't afraid of meetin' my maker."

She sighed.

Arthur fished into his satchel and brought out a bottle of whiskey, near full. "Here," he said, tossing it to the young woman. "Have a drink."

She took two swigs, wincing as the heat drilled down her throat, and handed it back to the cowboy sitting at her feet. He swung his head back to fill his mouth with the liquor and swallowed loudly.

After a pause, he said, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," she mumbled, taking the bottle from his hand.

"I didn't mean to upset you." Arthur sat facing her this time. He watched her take another mouthful of whiskey. He studied her humid face, fresh from the rain. Pink cheeks and endless black eyes. "And I'm sorry I talked about your mother."

"That was really low of you," she admitted, giving the whiskey back to him.

He sipped it. "I'm… yeah, I'm an idiot."

She didn't deny or agree, simply shrugged. "But yes, my mother was a hell of a good doctor."

Arthur smiled. She scooted closer to fetch the bottle from his hand. "She taught you well," he admitted, tilting his head to watch her down another drink.

Wincing, mouth still glittering with alcohol, she laughed. "Well, if I could be as half as good as she was, I'd be content."

"How did she do it?" Arthur asked. "Be a woman doctor."

Arya smiled. "She just was," she answered. "It's a legacy for the women in my family to know healing. Her mother taught her and so on. People in my town were used to coming to the Reed family for help. We lived mostly off my mother's earnings."

Arthur's brows shot up sarcastically. "Well look at you," he breathed. "Chargin' the sick."

Arya shrugged. "I'm not a saint," she said. "But at least we didn't go breaking down doors to haul money from starving and dying people."

Arthur waved it away and took another swig of the liquor. "I said I was sorry," he grumbled.

"Well," Arya sighed, "it's alright, I guess."

Arthur shuffled onto his bed roll, and with a groan, lay on his back. The alcohol was getting to his head, making him sleepy. He knew that if he drank more and stayed in such close confines with Arya, he wouldn't keep his hands to himself. "Lights out," he grumbled, even though it was more than pitch black in the tent, with only the dying fire outside casting an elfish glow.

"And they said cowboys can drink," Arya mumbled. She lay down on her roll, listening to him breathing. This close, her right arm could feel the heat from his left one. If she moved just a tad to the left, she'd be flush against him. The thought, in her whoozy state, was not unpleasant. She pictured herself cuddled up against him, with the weight of his arm around her shoulder, just like at the Downes farm before. She imagined her head against his chest, legs tangled, his free hand roaming where ever it pleased.

She thought that's what it would be like to be his wife.

* * *

Arya woke up to a pounding headache. The combination of alcohol and her lack of proper hydration was causing her head to feel as if someone was hammering inside of it relentlessly.

She rolled onto her back, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face, seeing it through her lids. When she opened her eyes, the tent was open, and to her left, no one. Arthur had taken his bed roll and only the dirt ground was left beside her.

Through the night, she remembered his warmth. He had not moved. In fact, both had been quite meticulous in keeping distance between each other. But in their sleep, somehow, they'd managed to close the gap. Arya's hand found home on his forearm. Arthur's face crept closer and closer to the crook of her shoulder.

But never more. Always just a breadth away from actually touching. Caught between sleep and wakefulness, they tugged along a rope; one side was the coldness of their separate bedrolls, the other side was the warmth of each other.

She groaned and sat up.

"Mornin'." Arthur peaked in, his hat low, the morning sun shining off it brightly.

"Morning." She happily took the cup of coffee that he handed and gulped it down.

"I caught two rabbits," he announced, still lingering by the open tent.

"Perfect for breakfast," the girl grumbled as she crawled out, shielding her eyes from the sun.

Arthur had built a fire, and sure enough, two rabbits were roasting on wooden sticks. The young woman could smell the meat cooking and her stomach rumbled.

"Here." Arthur offered her one rabbit, sat down in front of the fire, and patted the spot beside him. The girl obliged quietly.

She let Arthur fill her cup with more black, steaming coffee. She listening to the morning wildlife around her. The wind was chilly, but the sun was warm, and as it crept over the horizon, the pair got back onto their horses. Arya still had the conversation of the night before in her head. She hadn't consumed enough to forget how her imagination had run wild.

She'd imagined cozying up to Arthur; putting her head on his chest and tangling her legs with his.

Now, in complete silence, she stared at his back. They were riding slowly through the thick trees, and the sway of his horse made his shoulders rock from side to side.

She reminded herself that they were friends. She had no right to allow herself such wild imaginations.

They got back to camp by midday. Dutch was waiting for them, and as soon as he saw them riding in, he was rushing across camp.

"Arthur!" he called. "Arya!"

The pair dismounted and left their horses to the hitching post. "Everythin' alright, Dutch?" Arthur drawled. Arya camp up beside him.

"We got the O'Driscoll boy to talk," Dutch announced.

Arya knew about the O'Driscoll boy that they kept tied up to a tree. She'd kept as far away from him as possible. For her own reasons.

"Ah, without me?" Arthur chuckled.

"We got a location on Colm," Dutch said proudly.

Arya's eyes went as round as saucers. Her breath hitched, and for a second, she felt like she was combusting from the inside out. "Well, then, let's go!" she shouted.

She had barely taken one step. When Arthur stopped her, she was rigid and tense, every muscle in her body as hard as rocks.

"Woah, there, cowgirl," he cooed, voice low, cerulean blue eyes searching the endless pits of her orbs.

Her jaw was clenched when she spat out, "We have his location. Let's go." Her voice was something he'd never heard before. Frankly, it scared him. She was baring teeth and snapping.

"If this is Colm," Arthur said, trying to calm her, "he will have, what, like fifty men with him? We need a plan."

Her hands rolled into fists, but she didn't move.

"We need to assemble a team," Dutch said, nodding to himself. He was missing his bowl hat and had let his beard grow in enough to cast a shadow along his jaw. His attire was dirty, his boots didn't shine, and his hair needed a wash. Arya could see the effect of traveling so much on him. Trying to keep the entire group in one piece was taking a toll on Dutch Van Der Linde.

"Let's get the O'Driscoll kid to come along with us," Arthur suggested, still holding Arya in place.

"Okay," Dutch agreed. "Get the kid, get some weapons, and let's go find that son of a bitch."


	9. CHAPTER EIGHT: THE PEACE AFTER VIOLENCE

**Hay y'all! I'm really happy with this chapter. I tried to flesh out more of Arya's and Arthur's relationship, or shall we say, "friendship".**

 **SincerlyyYourss: Thank you so much for reviewing almost every chapter. Here's another good one!**

 **bennettnasagirl: thank you! I'm so glad that you like Arya. She's honestly very hard to write, as she walks along a thin line between completely unfeeling badass and raw emotion. I also decided to save Arthur the troubles of tb. Hope he likes healthy lungs.**

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CHAPTER EIGHT:THE PEACE AFTER VIOLENCE

 _I found peace in your violence_  
 _Can't tell me there's no point in trying_  
 _I'm at one, and I've been silent for too long_

Six Point Cabin. That's where they were headed.

Arya rushed across camp to check quickly on John. The man's hand was still ugly, and the stitches were far from being removed, but he was otherwise unharmed. His temperature was stable. He was eating and drinking fine, and he had not dropped a sudden amount of weight.

John kept saying, while Arya cleaned and changed his bandages, how he'd love to come along. Abigail gave him such an earful that John didn't even bother speaking after.

Bill, Sadie, and Dutch had armed the horses and were ready to go when Arya swung onto her mare. Sadie had the great pleasure to have Kieran ride with her, while Arthur took the lead with Arya. Dutch and Bill rode at the back as the group charged out of Horseshoe Overlook.

"Where we headed, Kieran?" Arthur asked.

"Up into the hills, near Valentine," the boy stammered. "I'll show ya."

Arthur laughed. "We're gonna pay your buddies our respects," he said in a grim and vicious tone.

They strolled onto the road, Arthur and Arya leading. The day was bright, and by then, the heat was cumbersome, and Arya was sweating through her woolen shirt.

"Can't believe I'm sharin' a saddle with an O'Driscoll!" Sadie spat angrily.

Arya smirked. She knew just how much hatred Sadie harbored for the outlaw gang, and how much she'd give to have a chance to slice one of their throats.

"How many times I gotta say?" Kieran cried. "I ain't an O'Driscoll."

"I've seen enough O'Driscolls to know one when I see one!" Arya barked back. She was gripping the reins of her horse so harshly that her knuckles had turned white. If she had the chance to kill Colm O'Driscoll, she wouldn't miss it. She would take revenge for her brother.

They rode over the train tracks. Dust pulled up in their wake, sticking to their clothes and their flesh. They rode to the left, along the tracks, the smell of dirt and fuel mingling in the air.

"Hey…" the O'Driscoll boy muttered. "Hey… i-i-if I got my bearings, it's over here. Take this track up through the rocks."

They pushed their horses harsher along the tracks, until the road wound between the valley of rocks. The sun was not letting out, no clouds, and hence no shade. Arya's hairline and nape were humid and soaked. She was mentally punching herself for not changing into a more breathable blouse.

"How'd you get this boy to talk?" Arthur asked.

Bill went into a laughing fit. "We held up some gelding tongs to his… excuse me ladies… to his parts."

Sadie barked out laughter that was part cruel and part real humor. "That must've been awesome."

"Y'all did this without me!" Arthur argued angrily, but he was smirking. "What'd you do exactly?"

"Well," Dutch said, clearing his throat. "We thought we'd get those pesky little boys off of him."

Arya knew exactly what he meant and held back a laugh of her own, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. That must have been funny to watch. "You boys do make a lot of fuss about those grapes," she giggled.

"Grapes?" Bill questioned harshly. "I don't know what kinda balls you've seen, but they ain't usually grapes."

"Bill!" Dutch shouted. "I don't think the ladies wanna hear about balls."

But Arya was smirking even wider as they rode out of the rocks.

"We ain't your typical kinda ladies," Sadie said with confidence.

They crossed another train track, where Kieran instructed them to go left, where the road would take them around the cliff. A coyote howled somewhere to the right as they rushed along the road. They passed under a bridge, where a caravan was crossing. The chauffeur stopped and looked down but did nothing to stop them.

They headed for the mountains, to Kieran's instructions.

"You know…" Kieran said hesitantly. "Y'all ain't that different from the O'Driscolls."

Arya's chest bloomed with angered heat as the words found her ears. The wind was whipping at her braid, cooling her face, and if not for it, she would be beet red.

"What did you just say?" she barked, turning for a half second to try to meet his eye.

"I been watching you all the weeks, and uhh…" he trailed off.

"You been tied to a tree!" Bill yelled. "You don't know nothin' about this gang!"

"Yeah well I'd… I'd say you don't know much about the O'Driscolls," the boy stammered on.

Arya stopped her horse so abruptly it reared on its back legs. The entire group came to a stop as she turned her horse to face Sadie's mount. Then Arya slid off, angrily marched towards Kieran, and tore him down from the saddle.

He hit the ground with a sickening thud, dirt clouding around him as he coughed. Arya grabbed the boy by the front of his dirty white shirt and hauled him a few feet away.

Faintly, she heard Arthur ask, "Should we do somethin'?"

"I wanna see this," Dutch grumbled back.

Arya was fuming. Her head was spinning with murder and blood and choking, and as she carried the boy until she could swing him against a rock, her hands were itching to kill him.

"Do you know what I know about the O'Driscolls?" she hissed between gritted teeth. As Kieran stammered and blubbered, she pulled out her knife. She still held him by the collar of his shirt. She pulled him closer until she could hold the blade against his Adam's apple. "They came into my home at night. They barged into our home while we were unarmed and sleeping. They didn't care. They took the widow we were living with, an innocent woman, and tied her to the kitchen table, wrists and ankles. They made us watch while they took turns with her. She cried and begged and told them to stop, but Colm O'Driscoll himself took to slicing her throat. And do you know what he said to us, right after he let three of his men rape her and then killed her?"

"N-no."

"He told us she was being too loud!" Arya had never been this angry. She bared her teeth and went on. "They tried to do the same to me. But unlike the innocent widow we lived with, I fought back because I knew how. To punish me for that, they made me watch my brother die. Limb from limb. Finger from finger. Inch by inch. They made it last all night."

Kieran was crying and shaking. The blade was drawing blood. "I-I'm sorry!" he begged.

"If I hear you say, one more time, that we are anything like the O'Driscolls," Arya threatened, "I will kill you slowly. Tongue to eyes to teeth to scalp. Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes!" Kieran cried. "I do!"

Arya, eyes so black and face so sorrowful and angered, hauled the boy back to his feet. She dragged him, while he cried and sputtered apologies, back to Sadie's horse. She was aware of the eyes on her; of the stares and open mouths and questions hanging in the air. She didn't care. She'd had enough of his ramblings, and never again, would she be compared to an O'Driscoll.

There was much more to that story, many more details, but she'd kept to the more gruesome ones.

As she climbed onto her horse, she felt Arthur's heavy gaze on her. Before he could say anything, she kicked her horse and they were off again.

They galloped passed a small farm with crusted walls and a dilapidated barn out front. They rode along the dirt trail, passing through the property in utter silence.

"If this is Colm," Arthur drawled to break the tension, "we can end years of fightin' right here."

With Kieran's stuttered directions, they headed through the forest at a slow pace. Arya's heart was beginning to quicken in her chest, pounding harsher and harsher the deeper they trotted through the underbrush.

"We're goin' in quiet," Arthur ordered. "Takin' 'em out as we see 'em. Tryin' not to set things off."

"That's right," Dutch agreed. "We keep things quiet as long as we can. We don't wanna scare Colm off."

They left their horses off hitched to trees and gathered their weapons. Arya took her knife, made sure her revolver was full of ammo, and slung her rifle across her back. She crept along with the boys and Sadie, who was carrying a shotgun. Dutch had a pistol in both hands. Bill was carrying a knife that shone brighter than the sun. As for Arthur, he was stringing his bow.

Just on the other side of a small clearing, the ground wound down and there it was. Behind a thick canopy of trees, the small camp lay alive. Fire smoke drizzled up into the ocean blue sky. Bodies moved like ghosts from under tents and from behind crates.

As the group crouched down, they saw three men wandering back into camp. One of them stopped to take a leak, while the other two turned their backs out of respect. Who knew O'Driscolls had respect?

"Arya," Arthur said, "can you throw some knives?"

She smiled eagerly. Arthur gave her two small knives, perfectly balanced. He pointed to the two men waiting by the tree line. "I'll get the one pissin'," he whispered hoarsely.

After a short countdown, Arya stood quickly. She perfectly aimed her knives and threw them one at a time. The one on the right dropped, knife stuck in the back of his head. The other just had time to turn and he was pierced through the neck.

Arya crouched back down. Arthur's target was dead; arrow stuck in his back.

"Alright," Dutch whispered. "We separate in two teams. Arya, Bill, you take the west side. The rest of us, we take the east."

"What about me?" Kieran asked lowly.

Arya smacked him behind the head. "You stay here, asshole," she growled. The boy eyed the knife she was holding, the same she'd used to threaten him not long before, and nodded. A soft whimper left his throat as he settled his back against a rock. "If we hear a peep out of you, I'll come back up here and snap your neck with my bare hands," she finished.

Arya and Bill went one side, while Arthur, Sadie, and Dutch took to the other. A man was sitting, whittling and whistling, in Arya's eyesight. She gestured to Bill, who rose an eyebrow in amusement. A smile crept on her face as she crawled up behind the lone O'Driscoll. Quickly, she put a hand over his mouth and pulled him onto his back. She made sure to make eye contact with the bastard before slicing his throat. It was like a small knife through butter.

She never liked killing, but she loved killing O'Driscolls. This wasn't the first one she'd killed, and certainly not her last.

Arya moved on from the man and followed Bill through the bushes. He pointed right ahead, to where a man was standing near a wagon. His arm was slung around the edge while he ate an apple.

Arya handed her bloody knife to Bill and gave him a tap on the shoulder. Under his burly beard, he gave her a toothy grin. She watched him quickly slit the O'Driscolls throat, drag his body behind a tree, and rush back to her.

He had barely pressed the knife into the young woman's hand when a shot rang from the east side.

"Men in the camp!" someone shouted. "Men in the camp!"

Then all hell broke loose.

There must have been twenty-five men to the five Van Der Linde. From the east end of Six Point Cabin, Arthur and Sadie were hidden on each side of a barrel, while Dutch was ducked under a wagon. Bullets ripped passed their heads, cracking through wood and tree trunks. Dirt, dust, and gun smoke clouded in choking smog around them as they fired, shot after shot, dropping body after body.

On the west side of camp, Arya leaned against a tree. Bark broke off with every bullet aimed at her and scratched at her face. Bill was not far beyond her, crouched between a crate and a fallen tree. The sound of gunfire was deafening and masked the screams of the O'Driscolls as they died.

Arya's ears were whistling by the time she could peak out from the tree and fire. The rifle she held was heavy, tucked against her left shoulder. The recoil sent pain shooting up her collarbone, but she ignored it as she went from cover to cover. She didn't look long enough to watch the men she'd shot fall to the ground. There was no time for that.

Adrenaline sang through her veins like fire. A buzz raked across her body as she got closer to Bill. Breathlessly, she hunkered down beside him, tucked behind the fallen tree. After a few more shots, the camp went utterly quiet.

Smoke spiraled out of her rifle. Bill was coughing heavily, bent over in half, his revolver hanging from his hands. "You alright, Bill?" Arya asked, getting to her feet.

He waved her off, coughed some more, and stood. She relaxed when she saw no bullet wounds, just the small scratches on his face and hands. She probably looked the same. When she swiped the back of her hand against her cheek, it was confirmed when her hand came back spotted with blood.

The pair stumbled into the center of camp. Bill began looting the bodies, while Arya looked around in a circle. Colm. Where was he?

Dutch scrambled in first, dusty, his attire crusted with dirt. Arya's eyes searched behind him, and surely, there was Sadie and Arthur, marching in.

"Everyone alright?" Arya asked, raking her eyes over her friends. Sadie had a mean cut across the lobe of her ear, which dribbled blood onto the front of her yellow blouse. Otherwise, the woman had a look of pure ecstasy on her sun-kissed face.

Arthur shrugged and scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah, we're alright."

"Kieran said Colm would be in the cabin," Dutch announced. He waved his gun towards the cabin, a stack of wood and stones that lay just a couple feet away. "Arthur, Arya, go check it out. We'll stay here and loot the bodies."

Arya fell in step beside Arthur, checking him for any wounds or blood with her eyes. His neck was speckled with crimson, but nothing alarming seemed to catch her eye. The man caught her looking, gave her a roll of his eyes, and smiled. He wouldn't lie and say he didn't like having someone fuss over him. Especially when it was her.

They walked passed a dead O'Driscoll, who'd been shot through the eyeball, and stepped onto the creaking porch. There was a chair by the door and lone logs strewn across the entirety of the porch. There was blood on the walls and on the floor, little speckles, a trail left behind.

Arthur went first. When his hand pushed against the knob, he felt his shoulders sag with the weight of knowledge. Something felt wrong. He didn't have time to process the feeling, however. He pushed the door open and stepped in. Darkness greeted him. The smell of rot and dust clung in the air like a second skin. A breath caressed the side of his face before he was knocked on his side.

Everything came down to that instant. Not before, when they were actually fighting outside, guns and all. Not when bullets grazed his skin and the flesh of his partners. Not when there was an actual war.

But this moment, as he turned onto his back and saw a man and time froze, was all that mattered. Brown, dirty hair. Mud-stained face. Wild look, like an animal being preyed on, in deep blue eyes. Gun in his hand. Yet, that man, who was most definitely not Colm O'Driscoll, but one of his boys, was not even looking at Arthur.

He was staring at the young woman in the doorway, illuminated by the sun at her back. Her eyes were round, her weapon slowly, oh so slowly, coming up to aim at the O'Driscoll. The latter was smiling. Not a wicked, killer smile, but the kind you give to a long-lost family member. Or to a pet when it finally finds its way home. Or to a lover.

"Arya?"

The word shattered the moment and time resumed. Like broken glass, the moment splintered into a thousand pieces around Arthur. He regained his breathing, the feeling in his fingers, and found the gun at his side.

He wasn't quick enough to kill the O'Driscoll. When he was finally aiming at him, Arya had shot him right through the face. Blood, hot and thick, splashed onto her face in a warm spray. She flinched, but no other emotion ran across her face as she watched the body thump to the ground.

In a haze, Arthur got to his feet. Unbeknownst to him, his breathing was ragged, and his blue eyes were wide with fear. Stumbling over the dead body, he gripped the girl's face. His thumbs slipped on the blood on her cheeks as he struggled to make eye contact. Black eyes stared up at him blankly, vacantly.

"You're… you're okay," he stuttered, breathless, heart hammering harshly against his chest. She frowned, wavered in his grasp, but still didn't take her dead eyes off him. When she didn't say anything, Arthur shook her slightly. Drops of blood fell off her chin and onto her neck. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice, surprisingly, tight.

She worked her jaw, biting the inside of her lip. "Yeah," she rasped. "I'm fine."

A sense of relief washed over him. Light, warm, and releasing, it crashed through him until he had to hold himself back. He wanted to pull her into him, to wrap his arms around her, to assure himself she was still in one piece.

But she slowly slipped from his grasp. His thumbs slicked against the wet crimson on her jaw as she turned and stumbled down the porch steps. She passed by Kieran, who was slowly, tentatively, trying to look inside.

Suddenly, Arthur's relief turned into rage. His fists clenched and his jaw gritted as he once again reached for his pistol. His blood boiled as he ripped it from his holster and aimed it at the poor, quivering boy before him.

"This was a set up!" Arthur roared as he clambered down the steps. He gripped poor Kieran by the throat and hauled him to the ground. "You set us up!"

Kieran put his hands up, scrambling in the dirt. "No, no, I swear!"

Dutch and Bill came running to join them, eyes wide, hands up in disbelief.

"This bastard set us up!" Arthur shouted at them, still aiming his weapon. "That wasn't Colm O'Driscoll. He ain't here."

Kieran was crying. "I didn't set – I didn't set y'all up!" He coughed as he scrambled away from Arthur, who was still aiming at him. "I swear it. I ain't done nothin'!"

Dutch put his hand on Arthur's revolver and pushed it down. "Arthur," he said gravely. "I believe our.. friend here is tellin' the truth."

Arthur's eyes, dark with rage, clicked from Dutch to Kieran. "We could have died, Dutch," he growled. "Didn't you see, back there?"

Dutch raised his hands in surrender. "Yes, I did," he answered. "But I also saw Kieran pick up a gun and save my life, just then." He gestured back to the center of the camp, where the bulk of the fighting had been.

Arthur sighed heavily, holstered his weapon, and passed a hand over his face. After a moment, he said, "I guess ol' Kieran ain't worth killin' just yet."

On the other side of camp, hidden from the four boys arguing over who set who up, Sadie was wiping the blood off Arya's face with the corner of her sleeve. The caramel-haired girl was stoic, expressionless. She stood with her head cocked slightly, eyes vacant and glazed. Sadie had spotted the girl, after the hassle in the cabin, walking off on her own, arms heavy, eyes glassy.

Sadie knew that look. She knew the catatonic state very well. When Dutch and the gang had rescued her, she'd spent a few days locked in a daze, trying to convince herself that everything that had happened was just a dream. Her husband. Her home. Her life. It had all been ripped away from her, torn and bled out and burned, but she had refused to come to terms with it. The terrible truth of it had clung to her like moss to a dead tree, and she couldn't shake it off. Even now, weeks and weeks after her widowhood, she still couldn't believe it was true.

When you've been raised to believe only the worse happens to others, you try to hold on to the good when evil ravages your life.

"He recognized me," Arya muttered.

Sadie paused, looked at her friend in the darkness of her eyes. "What you mean?"

"The man," Arya mumbled. "His name was Boone."

Sadie's eyes went round and she looked over Arya's shoulder, making sure none of the boys had just heard that. Then she grabbed her friend by the shoulders and shook her. "What in the world are you talkin' about?"

Arya's eyes watered, and for a second, she might have actually shed a tear. But then she'd be shedding a tear for a past life, a life that took her brother from her.

"I knew him," she said instead, regaining her composure. "From… before."

"Care to elaborate?" Sadie growled, still clutching Arya by the shoulders.

"I just knew him," Arya answered. "And now I killed him."

Sadie sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and stood straight. "Alright," she said. "But… don't you ever tell any of this to the boys, you hear me?"

Arya nodded. Men understood things differently. Sadie had to admit, she barely understood Arya's relationship with that man, Boone, who was an _O'Driscoll_. All Sadie saw and comprehended was that Arya was not a threat, and whatever she had had with Boone needed to be kept under wraps.

"Did anyone notice?" Sadie asked then. "Did anyone notice he recognized you?"

"Maybe Arthur," Arya admitted with a shrug. She looked back, spotted the four men still arguing, and looked back at her friend. "Boone said my name."

Sadie rolled her eyes angrily. "Okay, listen to me," she ordered. "If he asks about it, or Dutch asks about it, because we all know Arthur shits in Dutch's hand, here's what you say. You tell him you met Boone in some saloon, when you were young, before you knew he was an O'Driscoll. Y'all were friends. You hadn't seen him in years until today. You got me?"

Arya nodded. "I got you."

The moment faded and then Arya was part of the group again. She was on her horse, Rori's familiar shape under Arya's legs. Arthur was riding in front of her, shoulders swaying along with his own mount. Behind her was Sadie and Kieran, who had been miraculously accepted into the Van Der Linde fold.

Ahead, a sunset splashed with orange and blood red across the horizon. Deep clouds settling in, curling like smoke along the pastel blues of the remaining day sky. A wind, soft and forgiving and chilly, against the darkening and drying blood on their flesh.

* * *

Three nights later, Arya sat cross-legged on the edge of the cliff. Before her, a dying fire that was just embers and a soft braze. On the vastness of the dark sky, stars sprayed like paint.

A day ago, Arthur vanished. He'd been elusive with her ever since their return from Six Point Cabin, when he'd witnessed Boone recognizing her.

Arthur had taken to his tent, to his own world, and whenever their eyes met, he'd avert his. He purposefully ignored her when she said hello, and sometimes, he'd leave the area if she was there. Arya was convinced he was angry with her, for some reason or another, and that thought didn't sit well with her. She watched him pull himself away from her, bit by bit, for two days, until he vanished completely.

Arthur had a tendency to wander, here and there, go hunting and fishing on his own. He was comfortable on his lonesome. But when Arya heard from Tilly about a letter Arthur had received the night of Six Point Cabin, she relaxed. So he wasn't mad at her, after all. He was just… living something.

Arya chewed on her nails as she stared at the sky, deep in thought. She hadn't voiced her concern about Arthur to anyone. She knew what they'd say; that he was a man of little to no words and who loved his lonesome. Sadie would tell her that Arthur didn't trust people who were recognized by O'Driscolls.

Shadows flickered and Arya shifted, ready to greet Sadie. But when Arya turned, it wasn't Sadie who was stumbling down to the cliff side, but Arthur.

Arya almost gasped at the sight of him. His eyes were red rimmed, as if he had cried, and his cheeks were so flushed with color that Arya began to worry about disease. His hat was off, and his dark blonde hair was tousled dramatically, leaving stray curls to pop up from his scalp. A dark grey blouse clung to his upper body, and it was unbuttoned low, as if he'd thought about taking it off and then changed his mind.

"Arthur?" Arya's voice came out as a squeak. When she saw the bottle of whiskey in his hand, she understood why he looked so disheveled.

"Didn't scare ya, now, did I?" he rasped. He chuckled lowly and slumped down not far from her. She turned completely, legs crossed under her, until she could face him straight on. Her knee bumped against his thigh and she left it like that. He gave her a sideways grin before downing a gulp of alcohol.

"How come every time we talk alone, you gotta have whiskey?" she joked.

He snorted, gave her a raised eyebrow. "Life is hard without whiskey," he said. She realized he wasn't _that_ drunk. His eyes were still clear and diligent, but he had a smooth, easy smile that told Arya that if she willed, she could do anything she wanted to do to him, and he wouldn't refuse.

That thought was pleasant.

"Where you been, Arthur?" she whispered, eyes low.

When Arthur glanced at her, the fire cast an orange glow on her skin, and his heart squeezed. "I went to see an old… friend," he answered.

"I thought you were mad at me," she admitted.

Arthur frowned. "What for?"

She shrugged and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "You were acting so weird," she said.

Arthur sighed heavily. He debated telling her that he couldn't bare to look at her face when his mind was filled with thoughts of Mary. Or that the sound of Arya's voice reminded him of a dream he'd once believed in firmly, but then denied for the rest of his life. Or that the smell of her, the tease of her touch, reminded him of how easy he could believe in that dream again.

"I went to go see a woman I…" he trailed off and cleared his throat, stared at the sky. "I went to go see the only woman I've ever loved."

Arya looked at him intensely. He could feel her gaze on him, and he marveled at how easy she could maintain eye contact.

"We were young, when it all happened," he continued. "But today, it was like – like revisitin' an old wound. Like, when we were young, all I wanted was to love her. I wanted her to have my children, to live in my house that I built for us. I wanted to come home to her and to protect her. I wanted her to wear a ring that I gave her. I wanted her. Just her. But then, today, we sat down and all I could feel was… it was more like I was remembering how I felt before. Not like a dream. I still care about her but seeing her face doesn't stir in me what it did before.

"And yet I loved her true," he went on. "Today, though, I realized I don't love her no more. My memories do."

Arya's fingers grazed his, where his hand lay in the grass. The contact didn't scare him like it would if he was sober. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He shrugged. "You can't do bad things and expect to live a good life," he whispered back.

Her fingers closed around his and she held onto him. The warmth of her hand seeped into his, and for a moment, he didn't feel so heavy, burdened, by the day he'd lived.

"I went to go help her brother," he continued. He took a gulp of whiskey. "She held me in her arms. She smelled the same as I remember. Yet if she'd asked me to come along with her, then, I would have said no."

Arthur let Arya hold his hand. The action comforted him, as he knew there were no words in the English language that could provide the same amenity.

After another long gulp of whiskey, he asked, "You ever been in love, Arya?"

Her eyes looked down when he turned to face her. She shook her head. "No."

"Good," he sighed. "Ain't nothin' good that ever came outta love."


	10. CHAPTER NINE: NO CRAZY BUSINESS

**Hey y'all! This is my favorite mission, and so I obviously made Arya tag along. I think you'll like this ;) Anyway, this is the last chapter before Arthur and Arya get into their original mission, so enjoy the innocence while you can!**

 **SincerlyyYourss: Hahaha, I'm glad you like Arya's mean-girl-yet-softy personality. You'll she, she'll have to walk a totally different other line after this one! Thank you for your faithful reviews, they are always cherished.**

 **Bennettnasagirl: Gah, I'm so glad you like Arya! Thank you! I'm also so psyched that you like the dynamic between Arthur and her. It's been a long time coming and there's still a lot of ground to cover. Enjoy this one :)**

 **As always, thank you to those who favorited, followed, and even read :)**

* * *

CHAPTER NINE: NO CRAZY BUSINESS

 _Well my buckle makes impressions_  
 _On the inside of her thigh_  
 _There are little feathered Indians_  
 _Where we tussled through the night_

Ever since Arthur confessed about his love towards Mary, it was harder and harder for Arya and him to stay away from each other. Arthur still held the phantom touch of her fingers tightening around his. Her smell still lingered in his bed, where she'd spent some nights when John was convalescing in her own tent. The way she just listened still haunted him; wide eyes, face open to whatever was about to come from his mouth.

Arthur hadn't told her about Mary to vent or to attract pity from her. All he craved was the sweet release of just telling someone. He preferred Arya because he knew she'd never judge the way his heart worked.

And he craved her touch. Arthur was not a touchy-feely kind of man. He hated contact, especially when it was unwarranted and gratuitous. Yet Arya's touch did not evoke in him the familiar stomach ache or the disgust. Her touch was comfort and sweet smiles. Her touch made him feel easy.

As for Arya, the progress – she liked to call it that – made her stomach queasy with anticipation when she woke up. Arthur was a mystery that pulled her in like magnet to metal. Having his hand in hers, fingers curled into each other, still lingered in her mind.

When their eyes crossed as she exited her tent, she smiled slowly. It didn't reach her eyes, but the smile was soft, and Arthur returned it from his perch by the cliff. Warmth pooled in her stomach and she realized those were called butterflies. She shook herself, readjusted her white long-sleeve, and headed towards Pearson's wagon.

After breakfast, Arya headed to John and Abigail's tent. Jack was sitting beside the opening, his legs outstretched before him.

"Hey Jack," Arya greeted. She crouched down in front of him. The sun was beaming onto his chocolate brown hair and those cute little freckles on his nose.

"Hey Arya." His voice was so small and breathy that it gave the young woman a maternal instinct to just pull him in.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked.

The boy shrugged. "Ma and pa were yellin'," he answered.

Arya sighed. Everyone in camp knew that Jack was stuck in the middle of his parent's fuming arguments. Arya was in no place to say anything about their relationship, and in fact, she preferred to mind her business. Abigail was hot-headed, strong-willed, and not easily passable. She tended to always want to have the last word in an argument, which usually left her opponent feeling irritated. As for John, he was too aloof to even have an argument, which made Abigail even madder.

And if Arya was thinking honestly, she liked John more than Abigail. The former was cool and sly and calm. Yes, he was dumber than a fish, but he didn't go out looking for trouble with those who cared for him.

Arya left Jack to play with his toys as she clambered into the tent. John was sitting on the edge of the cot, his injured hand cradled against his chest. When he saw the young woman walk in, he looked up and gave her a toothy grin. The fresh scars on his face stretched white.

Abigail was sitting on a stool, arms crossed over her chest, her face pulled into a tight scowl.

"Is this a bad moment?" Arya asked shyly. John was topless and Abigail was in her shift, and maybe Arya had walked into the aftermath of a fight?

John laughed. "Not at all."

Abigail stood abruptly. "I changed his bandages like you taught me to," she said, pride in her voice. The woman began to dress herself, as if Arya wasn't even there. She pulled on her dress while both her husband and the other woman watched, one smiling, the other cowering with embarrassment.

Oh, Arya had _definitely_ walked into something.

After Abigail tossed John a shirt, Arya asked, "Was there anything different with his wound?"

"Nothin' that seemed alarmin' to me," Abigail huffed with a corner smile. Arya had taught her how to change bandages and clean wounds, which the young wife was happy to do for her wounded husband. She took it seriously, probably too seriously, and reported everything to Arya.

John wiggled into his shirt, carefully, and laughed when his arm got stuck. Abigail helped him pull his wounded hand through the sleeve.

"I'm going to take a look," Arya said, her voice dropping to the professional tone she took when she worked.

When the bandages were off, Arya examined John's hand closely. The gashes were beginning to close. The entire week of rest had done him well. Some cuts were turning into scars, and the color of his hand was no longer alarming. A normal, creamy white color had returned to his hand and to his face, which made Arya relieved.

"I'm going to check for nerve damage," she mumbled.

"What?" he asked.

Arya picked up a little stick from the ground. "You tell me if you feel this," she instructed. She pressed the stick lightly near his wounds. John winced. Good. Arya dragged the stick along his palm, holding his wrist gingerly.

"I… I don't feel that," he muttered. When Arya looked up, John's eyes were wide and glassy.

"That's okay," she breathed. "It might take some time to recover feelings when there's been too much damage." Even she could hear right through her own lie.

She turned John's hand upside down and slid the stick from the inside of his palm along his middle finger. She looked up at him expectantly.

"Yes," he said. "But barely."

"What about this?" she asked as she applied pressure with the stick. John nodded quickly and childishly.

Abigail chuckled to see her husband so sheepishly nodding. "This is good, right?" she asked, leaning over Arya's shoulder.

"He can feel pressure," Arya answered. "He can't really feel it when I just lightly graze him, which could be a problem if he wants to hold things in his hand, which is why we will need to do some therapy."

"Therapy?" Abigail asked, her accent heavy and thick to Arya's ears.

"Yes, physical therapy," Arya answered. "With a ball. You'll see." John knew about this already and Arya had hoped he would have filled his own wife in, but that was their business.

"When will that be?" Abigail persisted.

"I can actually take out some stitches today," Arya admitted. "His wounds are healing beautifully. But I still don't want him using his hand for some time. When the wounds are completely scarred, I'll get to work with him."

Abigail sighed in relief. She handed Arya some scissors. The young woman cut stitches from the healed wounds, while John winced and tried to act tough. Then she cleaned his wounds and bandaged him up.

"You should go and take some sunshine," Arya suggested, gesturing to his pale face.

"C'mon on, cowboy!" Abigail quipped, helping her husband to his feet.

The three of them exited the tent. Abigail and John beckoned their son to spend some time with them near the cliff. Arya's eyes searched the grounds for Arthur.

It became an automatic thing to look for him. Her eyes swept across camp, but he wasn't by the cliff. She walked across to the fire, greeting the women and Uncle, who were gathered together. Dutch and Molly sat in Dutch's open tent. Tilly was reading by the fire.

And Arthur was swinging his legs as he sat at the cliff's edge on the other side of camp.

"Morning," she greeted as she sat down beside him. The wind ruffled her braid and the loose strands of hair beside her cheeks.

Arthur greeted her back and gave her an unruly smile. He was wearing a black union shirt and a dirty black vest. His ammo belt was left behind somewhere, but he had two pistols in the holsters of his belt. He wore his hat low on his forehead, as if he was hiding something.

Then Arya noticed. She laughed when she saw the shorter strands of Arthur's hair. "Did you get a bad haircut, Arthur?" she asked.

He frowned, looked at the crispy blue horizon. "Uh – no," he said.

Arya reached over and took his hat off. The action was innocent and friendly, but Arthur found it sweet. Her mouth pulled into a genuine smile that crinkled her eyes and dimpled her cheeks and Arthur was tingling all over when her eyes met his and she hummed.

"I like it."

Arthur was too lost in his own foolish thoughts to understand what she meant. He nervously raked a hand through the short, curling strands of his hair. A curl fell loose over his forehead and he shamelessly pushed it over his head.

"Pardon me?" he asked.

"It's better when it's like this," she answered. "Cleaner."

Arthur's stomach pinched when she tugged at the lowest strand behind his neck. She laughed and replaced his hat, swung her legs as if she hadn't just torn his heart right out of his chest.

He was about to ask her why exactly she preferred him with shorter hair than when he had it up to his shoulders, when the voice of Lenny caught his attention.

Arthur spun and was met with Lenny clambering towards them, Dutch not far behind.

"They got Micah, Arthur!" Lenny exclaimed, running, tumbling towards the duo by the cliff.

Dutch was trying to slow him down, but the boy was having none of it. Arthur and Arya got on their feet in a blink, all thoughts of short hair gone from their minds.

"What's goin' on?" Arthur asked, his face scrunching up into a scowl.

"They got Micah," the boy repeated, breathlessly. "He's – he's been arrested for murder! He was in Strawberry and he – "

Dutch put his hands on Lenny's shoulders. "It's okay, son," he cooed. "Breathe."

Lenny took a second to catch his breath. He readjusted his white coat and doubled over, wheezing. "They nearly lynched me," he confessed, cheeks blossoming red under the ebony color. "They… they got Micah in the sheriff's in Strawberry. And there's talk of hangin' him."

Arthur snorted and put both hands on his belt. "Here's hopin'," he mumbled.

Arya hid a giggle behind the back of her hand. She met Dutch's flaming gaze and bit her lip instead.

"Arthur," Dutch scolded.

"What?" Arthur squeaked. "The fool brought this on himself. You know my feelings about him, Dutch."

Dutch sighed heavily, and an expression came across his face. It was dark and menacing and heavy. Arya's insides coiled with worry and fear as she saw Dutch's brows furrow, his eyes darken, and his face narrow into a scowl.

And then, quickly, the look passed. Dutch's face softened and he waved Arthur's revelation away. He switched mask so quickly that Arya thought she'd imagined the entire thing.

"You think I can't see past his bluster to the heart inside?" he asked Arthur. "He is a fine man." There was something theatrical and dramatic about his tone of voice, as if he was speaking to a child who needed to be painted a bigger picture to understand an ordinary ordeal.

Arya's skin crawled and thoughts scribbled in her mind. Fire and death and blood, and she found herself looking at the picture again. Black and white, faces peering up at her from a wooden porch. Words scribbled on the side. Familiar smiles. Familiar fates.

"No," Arthur grumbled. "I ain't savin' that fool." He made to step away from the conversation.

"You guys shouldn't even trust him," Arya mumbled, and all activities stopped.

The three men gathered around her froze and stared at the short, caramel-haired girl. Her face was void of any emotion, back to its stoic, stone cold solidness.

"Excuse me?" Dutch growled, and Arya glimpsed a piece of the emotion she'd seen before; raw, vicious, and untamable. She stared at him hard, daringly, almost. From under black brows, her swan eyes dug holes into Dutch's seemingly implacable demeanor.

"She's right, Dutch." Arthur's voice was slow, tentative. His head was slightly bowed when Dutch's eyes found him.

"I don't care what you think," Dutch growled, and his eyes met Arya's again. "He is part of this gang. He'd go after you if the situation were reversed."

"That ain't true," Arthur grumbled.

Dutch was fuming; flaring nostrils, wide eyes, and cheeks red with anger. "I said I don't care!" he exclaimed. Arya saw some faces turn to them; Tilly, Pearson, Sadie. "I can't go! My face will be plastered all over West Elizabeth."

Arya clenched her teeth together. She'd seen manipulation before and knew it better than the lines in her own palm.

Dutch switched to pleading as he stepped towards Arthur, completely ignoring the girl. "I am _askin'_ you," he begged. "Please."

Arthur met Arya's eyes across the small space where she stood, on the other side of Dutch. Her face was void again. "Alright," Arthur agreed in a breathy tone. "But it's the last time I'm savin' that fool's life."

Dutch smiled and walked over to Lenny, who was sitting down at a table, his head in his hands. "Lenny, my boy," Dutch said lowly. "Are you alright?"

Lenny shivered visibly. "Yeah, 'course I'm okay," he answered in a small voice.

"You don't seem okay," Arthur chimed in. He glanced at Arya quickly and smiled.

"Arthur, take that kid into town," Dutch ordered lowly. "Valentine, not Strawberry. Get him drunk."

Arthur smiled down at Lenny, patted him on the shoulder. Arya watched as Dutch walked right passed her and into his tent, where Molly waited patiently.

"And Arthur," Dutch said, turning to face the trio, "no crazy business."

Arthur put up his hands in mock surrender. "I've given that up!" he laughed.

"And you get Micah outta that jail," Dutch said with finality, his tone cold, as he shot Arya one last glare before closing his tent.

Arya sighed and watched Arthur help Lenny to his feet. "C'mon, son," he groaned. "Arya, you comin'?"

The young woman smiled wickedly as she followed the men. Lenny climbed onto his tan-colored steed, his face taunt with concern. "Don't worry, Lenny," Arya reassured him. "We'll get your precious Micah back."

Lenny shrugged as Arya got onto her mount. "It ain't about Micah," he admitted. "More about how he just up and murdered a feller."

"I know how it goes," Arthur groaned, the reins of his horse held tightly in his grip. "He's drunk and sees some fellers he knows and then the next thing you know, he's shootin' one of 'em."

"Yeah," Lenny breathes. "He's got a crazy side, Arthur."

Arthur's eyes met briefly with Arya's as they rode out onto the road. A coil was turning in her stomach. Something had always been off about Micah, right from the start, when they'd found her in the winter wilderness. The eyes he gave her, the face that was slick with something inhumane.

He wasn't right.

"Forget about it, for now, Lenny," Arthur sighed heavily. "It's midday. We'll go and get one or two drinks and be back by sundown. Alright?"

* * *

It was more than one or two drinks.

As soon as they came into the saloon, the place was overly crowded. Men played cards and gambled and swung their fists on tables. The pungent smell of alcohol reeked from everyone and everywhere. Floors, tables, and people were coated in sticky beer, whiskey, and moonshine. Women – paid women – bounced from one lap to the other until Arya couldn't keep count of who was who.

At first, when it was still light out, they'd sat at the bar. Arthur had ordered beers and they drank peacefully. But the liquor never stopped coming and the trio didn't stop drinking. Their laughter turned into hysterical cries, and they leaned into each other, swaying, slurring.

A man began to play the piano.

The room swam and it was dark out and new faces dipped in and out of focus. Arya found herself playing poker with three men, one of them so drunk he could barely hold himself up. She won five dollars and a quarter. She bagged the money and downed all their drinks.

At some point, Lenny and Arthur got into a slapping match. Arya bet fifty cents on Arthur. She lost. For that, her and Arthur gulped a shot of whiskey while Lenny watched, bent over with laughter. Both their cheeks were red. Arthur had the hand of Lenny imprinted in a white outline on his face.

The piano became fast and dramatic and Arthur swung Arya into his arms.

People danced around them. Arya's hands were around Arthur's neck, his on her waist, and they shamelessly danced. They doubled over in laughter. His body was hot and hers was curvy and the music was good. And then Arthur was pulling her against him, flush, until he could feel her breasts crushed against his chest, and she was splaying her hands flat against the hard muscles of his back.

And then the room swam and dipped and swerved and she was drinking again.

Laughing. Pulling at Lenny's coat. "Don't go, you sick bastard!" she yelled, giggled, fell.

Lenny laughed and tried to pick her up but fell awkwardly over her onto the sticky floor.

"Lenny!"

Someone was yelling downstairs.

Lenny got up, swayed, helped the girl onto her feet. "Let's go on an adventure," he slurred. His eyes didn't focus. Or maybe it was Arya's eyes that couldn't focus?

She laughed. Her cheeks were flaming hot, and her skin glowed with sweat, and her mind was a happy, happy haze.

"Lenny!" It was Arthur.

"In here," she slurred, pointing to the door.

Lenny stumbled, held himself up on the wall, and then barged into the room, Arya behind him laughing. They burst onto a lovemaking. The girl, straddling her lover, shrieked and covered herself. Arya laughed so hard she feared she'd piss herself. Lenny stumbled back, right into the young woman behind him, and down they went.

In the mixture of the woman's screaming, Arya's laughter, and Lenny's frantic apologies, Arthur found them.

"Lenny!"

Arthur went for the girl. He was so drunk that he smelled like moonshine and not even like the pine-wood, fire smoke smell that was _him_.

"Arthur, you stink," the girl laughed, slurred, as the man pulled her to her feet.

His mouth split into a shit-eating grin. "Then help me take a bath, will ya?" His accent was thicker in this state, rolling off his tongue like honey.

And then his face swayed and swam beyond her vision, and his warmth was all she wanted. His body. The outline of the muscles on his back. The sharpness of his jaw.

The piano was so loud. She was dancing again, going from one arm to the other. Faces were a blur. Voices zoned in and out of her mind until all it became was a haze of shouting, piano, and laughter.

Swimming. Swaying. Drinking.

"Lenny!"

Arya was wrapped around Arthur's back, her legs tucked around his waist. He held her thighs firmly as he navigated the crowded saloon. On his back, a laughing, red-cheeked woman with wildly messy braids and a bottle of whiskey in her hand.

"Lenny!" she howled.

Some girls scurried passed, laughing, giggling, while boys chased after them.

Arya could feel Arthur's back against her front and something warm and slick pooled between her legs. She leaned into his ear, her mind swimming, her thoughts a blur, and giggled, "Let's f-fuck."

Arthur hiccupped, and in his surprised state, drunk at that too, he let the girl slip from his grip. She hit the floor with a thud and giggles erupted from her.

And then she forgot. The world swam and then Lenny was swinging her along, the piano loud in her ears. Her feet were numb, and her claves burned from the effort, but it was just so _fun_. She was giggles and shrieks of laughter, dancing, swaying, moving along with everyone else around her. Arm to arm, hand to hand. She danced with people she didn't recognize; men and women. Lenny and Arthur.

She pulled Arthur down. "I need to pee," she rasped, swaying. He steadied her, but he was swaying too.

The cool night air was a relief against her flaming skin. Her hairline was soaked, and her braids were messy, and her body ached all over. As she crouched down behind a bush, she ordered Arthur to be the pee police. She relieved herself there, crouched crab-like in a bush, while Arthur talked on and on about fighting on the other side of the bush.

When she was done, she pulled up her pants and fell, toppled over, banging her head against the side of the general store. They'd gone between two buildings, a short alley that was dark. Mud pooled at her feet. She hadn't noticed her surroundings until now, when she sat in the dirt, head pounding.

Arthur helped her to her feet, stumbled, and then crushed her against the wall. Both hands on either side of her face, he leaned in, eyes glazed. The girl's own hands found home at his waist, under his shirt, pinky fingers drawing circles on the hot flesh.

Arthur groaned. He cupped her cheek. Her lashes fluttered and then her dark, dark eyes stared up at him. She was so much smaller than him. "Don't touch me unless you know what you want," he rasped. His thumb dragged along her lower lip.

Heat pooled in her stomach, in her core. She wanted something hard between her legs. Out of instinct, she whimpered.

In a blink, Arthur picked her up and wrapped her legs around his waist. He was strong, and his muscles coiled under Arya's touch as she slid her hands along his shoulders, dipping around his back.

Her instinctual need for something to be between her legs was satisfied. "I know what I want," she slurred.

Arthur shook his head. "No, you don't," he whispered. His face found home in the crook of her neck. She smelled of alcohol and sweetness and something sugary. Arthur felt the need to bite and so he sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck. She groaned, her taste filling his mouth as he chuckled. "That's gonna leave a mark."

Arya threw his hat off. She gripped the dark blond strands of his hair and tugged, bringing his face out of the sanctity of her neck.

"Bad boy," she cooed. She had a lazy smirk on her lips.

In Arthur's hazy state, he noticed how different she looked. Vulnerable. She always looked cold and unreachable, and that was before her and Arthur became friends. Even after, she was still so implacable. Stoic and cold and closed. She would smile, those darling, dimpled grins that made his stomach roll, but he always thought there was more behind them.

And now, cheeks red, body warm, wrapped around him, she was herself. Smiling and giggling, pressed hotly against him in all ways possible, Arthur knew this to be her truest smile.

The alcohol was making him woozy, the world swaying and dipping. He would lose focus soon, and his grip would falter. He didn't want to let her go. She was warm and beautiful, and he wanted her.

"I would say you're a bad little girl, yourself, missy," he laughed. Their mouths were so close. She could feel the phantom ghost of his mouth against hers, his breath fanning her face.

"Call me little one more time, and you'll be on your back, cowboy," she threatened, but she was laughing.

"That ain't such an unpleasant idea," he grumbled back with a smirk.

And that was it. The moment. The need in his chest erupted and he wanted to kiss her so badly. He wanted to take her, to have her sprawled under him or vice versa. In that hazy state, piss drunk and swaying, he didn't know which he preferred; him or her on top, but he didn't care. He wanted the warmth of her, the wetness he missed, the tightness. He wanted to plunge himself in her and never leave her.

"Come get it, pretty boy," and she was ready too. A throbbing had settled between her legs, an ache deep her belly. She wanted friction, hard, relentless contact.

"You'll never get me alive!"

Lenny ran passed them in a flurry, bringing along with him two deputies. Arthur stumbled, lost his grip, and Arya was on her feet. A hollowness was left behind where they had once connected, but all thoughts of that had vanished as they saw Lenny being tackled to the ground.

"Ah, Lenny!" Arthur growled loudly. He ran towards the streets.

Arya clambered behind, still swaying, still so drunk she won't remember anything. She pulled one of the deputies aside, tugging on his elbow. He veered on her viciously. "Get the hell away from me, woman!" he yelled.

Arya punched him, knuckles scraping painfully against the deputy's jaw. "Ow," she mumbled.

The deputy got back on his feet, covered and dripping mud, and pushed her harshly. Arthur yelled out, but he was being restrained by the other deputy, while Lenny emptied the contents of his stomach onto the mud. Arya laughed, the scene swimming before her.

The deputy grabbed her, hoisted her over his shoulder, and grumbled, "Let's sober up these fellers in jail."

Arya laughed as if it was the funniest joke ever. She looked up and saw Arthur literally being dragged through the mud by the other deputy, while Lenny followed with small, quivering steps. Was Lenny actually walking himself, _willingly_ , into jail?

That was Arya's last thought before she blacked out.


	11. CHAPTER TEN: FRAGILE FRIENDSHIP

**This is a long one! Last chapter before our beloved duo head into their first mission. Thank you to those who favorited and followed!**

 **RESPONSES TO REVIEWS:**

 **Globetrotter28: I jsut noticed that the rating was K? I thought I had put it as M. Thank you for letting me know!**

 **bennettnasagirl: No one hates Micah more than players who've finished the game ahaha! But yes, Arya will one day give Micah what he deserves. I'm glad you liked it!**

 **Almj31: here, you can geek out a little more! I'm super glad you like my OC and the way I write Arthur. It's always scary to portray a character that others love so much.**

 **Vic: I AM SO HAPPY YOU LIKE THIS! I am so happy that Arya is loved omg! Thank you a million times!**

* * *

CHAPTER TEN: FRAGILE FRIENDSHIP

 _Honey tell me how your love runs true_  
 _And how I can always count on you_  
 _To be there when the bullets fly_  
 _I'd run across the river just to hold you tonight_

The jailor raked his baton against the metal bars of Arya's cell, the sound reverberating painfully into her skull. She awoke with a groan, her mouth desert dry, her head pounding. Every heart beat echoed in her skull, every breath felt like inhaling venom.

There was a window over her cell, which poured golden sunlight into the jailhouse. As soon as she opened her eyes, she closed them, pinched them shut, and prayed for the monstrous headache to leave. It was like claws raking against the inside of her head, over and over, bleeding her dry from the inside out.

"I am never drinking again," she mumbled to herself, one arm draped over her eyes. She could feel the metal cot under her, hot and hard, and the room around her began to take shape. Her ears picked up on shallow breaths, shuffling feet, and the steady clanging of spurs.

"I'd say that's a very good resolution, miss." The voice was none that she'd heard before. As she sat up and dared to open her eyes to the too-bright room, she spotted the sheriff wandering about in front of her cell. He was a tall feller, with greying whiskers and a dark brown hat sitting over a balding head. When he saw Arya was awake, he rose a brow and shook his head. "It ain't like a lady to get piss drunk and hang about these fellers," he said, gesturing to the cell behind him.

Arya's reddened eyes found the two bodies strewn across the cell like dirt. Lenny hadn't bothered to even make it to the cot. He was sprawled on his front, white coat drenched in dried mud, snoring on the cold floor. Arthur was awkwardly laying on the cot, on leg dangling off the edge, mouth open in a silent snore.

Arya's heartbeat quickened. Memories of last night flooded her mind; Arthur's hot breath, his hands, his back, her own treacherous want building inside her. The music. The touching.

She groaned. She'd thought she'd forget it all by morning.

"Well," she muttered, "I'm not your typical lady."

The sheriff frowned. "You ain't from around here, ain't ya?" he asked.

"No."

"Well, wherever you're from," he sighed, "I'd suggest you don't hang around fellers like these. They can get ya into some real trouble."

Arya didn't need this man telling her who to hang with or not. All she wanted was a gallon of water, a cup of hot coffee, and a three-day nap.

"What do I have to do to get out of here?" she asked. She clutched the side of the metal cot, knuckles going white, as her headache soared through her skull.

"That's ten dollars for the lot of you," the sheriff answered, and then he waddled back to his desk, spurs clanging loudly along with him. "But I'll wait for your friends to wake up before I collect your money."

Arya groaned internally. She smelled of piss, alcohol, and mud. Dirt covered her white shirt until the garment was nothing like it used to be. Sweat had dried and hardened the material, and she was sure that she smelled like it too. Her hair was a tangled mess, still in its braids, but messy all the same. A dull ache had settled in her stomach, which she was sure was hunger, but she knew that if she ate, she'd bring it all back up.

Above her physical state, she was dizzy with memories. What had she done? She remembered the wall, being held up against it, Arthur's strong hands gripping her thighs. The phantom feeling of his mouth on hers. Had they kissed?

She winced when her shirt ghosted along a sensitive spot on her neck. Instinctively, she brought her fingers to the spot. She pressed, flinched. A memory fluttered through her senses; the sensation of Arthur's teeth biting down on her neck.

" _That's gonna leave a mark."_

She shook her head hard, then regretted it. A fresh wave of nausea hit her and she almost barfed. Breathing in slowly, she regained her senses enough to think.

She prayed to God that Arthur didn't remember.

It wasn't long until the boys started to wake. First, Lenny, with groans and moans and prayers. He shifted onto his back, tears in his eyes from the sun pooling around him in golden waves. The kid's skin was ashen, and when he sat up, his eyes were unfocused and glassy.

"What in the hell did we do?" he asked.

Arya, by this point, was leaning her head against the wall, sitting with her knees to her chest. "Enough to get us in here," she answered, her voice roach and unfamiliar.

Lenny tried getting to his feet but ended up clinging to the metal bars. The sheriff informed him of their current situation and the price they had to pay and settled back into his chair. They waited another half hour before Arthur finally deigned to wake up.

"What is this?" he growled, clutching his head as he slowly sat up. Each vowel was prolonged, and he sounded like he hadn't drank water in days.

Arya's cheeks bloomed red when his eyes made contact with hers across the jailhouse. He frowned and cocked his head. "You in here too?" he asked.

A gush of relief spread across her chest. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't remember," she lied, shrugging, putting on her best face.

"You know," the sheriff started, pacing before their cells, "now that you're all awake, there is a fine for drunken violence in this town."

"We ain't done nothin'," Arthur defended, head in his hands, still sitting on the cot.

The sheriff laughed. "Son, your little lady over there punched one of my deputies across the mouth," he said. "And the boy, here, was running across town raisin' all kinds of hell. And _you_ , oh you tried fightin' me when we lay hands on your little girlfriend."

Arthur rose his head and rolled his eyes. "She ain't my girlfriend," he groaned. "And I don't remember doin' none of that."

"Are you accusing us of anything, sheriff?" Arya asked, a ball of unease in her throat.

"Nah," he answered with a wave. "Ten dollars and you're free to go."

Arthur groaned, pulled out a stack of bills, and handed the money to the sheriff. The latter took it gratefully and fished the keys from his pockets. "Now you don't go causin' anymore trouble 'round here, alright?" he asked loudly, purposefully, as the trio clutched their heads.

Arya walked out first, feet numb and legs wobbly. The boys trailed behind, footsteps heavy. The sun was so bright and hot that when they all got outside, they all sat on the porch, groaning and holding their heads. Silence pressed onto their shoulders. Arya wished none of them asked what happened because she was sure she was the only one who remembered.

"Must have been a hell of a night if we ended up here," Lenny laughed. He sat on Arya's right.

"What the hell did we do?" Arthur asked. He was on Arya's left, loose strands of hair in his eyes as he stared up ahead.

Arya shrugged. "Apparently, we fought the law," she said, which wasn't a lie. Arthur gave her a sideways glance, lips pursed into a lopsided grin.

"Look at you, punchin' deputies," he chuckled. Then his big, warm hand cupped her shoulder and her skin tingled where he pressed. Sensations and memories flooded her mind, and she remembered being on his back, asking of him something she'd not normally ask.

"We should get back to camp," she said hurriedly. She got to her feet, boots in the mud, as she looked around the main street for their horses.

It was early morning, and Valentine had barely woken up. She knew, from working here all these years, that the people usually wandered the streets after breakfast. The only ones out were the workers, shopkeepers, and homeless.

There were only three people currently occupying the road; a merchant, the newspaper boy, and the general store clerk sweeping the porch. Their horses were right where they'd left them the night before, on the hitching post between the general store and the saloon.

Before they could get onto their horses, Arthur emitted a small sound, much like a squeak. Arya watched, gripping the reins of her horse, as Arthur wobbled into the alleyway. She bit her lip hard, trying to pry the memories from her mind.

" _Come get it, pretty boy."_

She flinched, watching Arthur pick up his hat. He studied it; the crusted mud and scratches and rope. Then he turned a frown unto her. "What the hell is this doin' here?" he asked. "I thought I'd lost it."

Arya didn't trust her voice, so she simply shrugged. However, she did remember vividly throwing it off his head to have access to his mouth. She remembered digging her fingers into the soft brown strands of his hair and tugging, and the sounds he made, and the way his mouth formed every word.

Again, the young woman shook herself. She hoisted onto her horse and pulled her away from the post and onto the road. "We should get back," she said firmly. "We have to go save Micah from hanging."

Arthur didn't make anymore of it.

Truthfully, Arthur had to admit he wasn't feeling himself. As he mounted his horse, he was met with the familiar feeling of dread creeping up his spine. Questions lingered in his mind, painfully so, with his raging headache. Arya's gaze was fleeting, and she could barely stand being near him, which raised many red flags in Arthur's mind. Had he done something displaced? He could not remember anything for the life of him, but he did remember how he'd felt; horny. To put it simply.

It had been a really, really long time since Arthur had felt such a way; attracted to someone and wanting to act upon that attraction.

He remembered hands and breaths and tastes, but he couldn't match those with any situation. There was a fire raging inside him, and whenever his eyes landed on the brunette, he felt like he was burning alive.

They rode back to camp under a hot bright sun and in utter silence. They rode in a single file, with Lenny in the middle. You could have cut a knife through the tension snapping in the air.

The camp was quiet as they trotted in. Everyone was awake and milling around, doing their business. Lenny went straight for the cliff side to empty his stomach. Tilly ran after him with soothing words and a bucket of cold water.

Hosea and Grimshaw were waiting for the remaining pair. As Arya got off her horse, Hosea was already by her side, a slow grin on his face.

"I've got news," he drawled. He wore a dark blue coat that matched the black dress Grimshaw was proudly sporting.

"Which is?" Arya asked.

Arthur lingered behind, hands on his belt. Hosea gathered them close and leaned in. "The investors will be in town sooner than we'd thought," he said.

"How do you know?" Arthur asked, now suddenly interested.

Arya's mind cleared for a second. No hangover was going to keep her from getting money.

"My contact in Valentine sent me a letter informin' me," Hosea answered. "We've got three days. I suggest you both ride into Valentine in two days and book a room before the men arrive. If we play this right, it'll be as smooth as spreadin' butter on bread."

"Do we have a team ready for Saint Denis?" Arya asked.

Hosea smarted. "I'll take care of that," he answered. "You guys have a lot of information to gather. Once we know where we're causin' trouble, we'll move in."

Arya risked a look back at Arthur. He was frowning under the rim of his hat, the cogs in his brain turning. A pensive air made his features look pointed, and under the bright light of the sun, he looked older than Arya would have guessed.

"Okay," he drawled. He gave Arya a hard look. "We head down there in two days. What's our story?"

Grimshaw smiled like she won the lottery. "You're a rich landowner who grows cotton in the south, Mr. Casey Brown," she said proudly. "You're in need of some money in this dry season as the pickin' didn't go as planned. You heard about an oil investment from your friends who own a boat casino in Saint Denis. You're here, with your darlin' wife Emily, to seek out these investors."

Arya rolled her eyes. "Can I change my name?" she groaned.

Grimshaw gave her such a look that she thought the woman would smack her. "No," Grimshaw growled back. "And you better learn how to act fancy because you're gonna get important information from the wives."

"I know," Arya answered.

"The important thing," Hosea interrupted, "is that you come in with money. Once these men are impressed and quite drunk, you lay down money to pay some more men for protection. I'll send Javier and Charles to Valentine in five days, and they'll act as your security. Get them to let you invest, ask for a ridiculous percentage, and they won't suspect a thing."

Hosea had a golden mind.

"Rich men are stupid," Arthur grumbled with a chuckle.

"And rich men dress well," Grimshaw said. "I'll get you both appropriate clothes to wear."

"I hate playin' dress up," Arthur groaned.

"No one's going to believe you if you're dressed like a farm boy!" she exclaimed. "And no one's going to believe _her_ if she's dressed like a man!" Grimshaw threw her hands up in a fury and scurried off, mumbling on and on about modern times.

Oh, she had no idea.

Hosea was smiling at Arya. "Get ready to wear the most ridiculously flowered dresses," he mocked. Arya playfully hit him in the arm, her mouth stretched into a small smile. Hosea laughed, rubbed his bicep. "Well, ain't you two got a certain cowboy to save from capital punishment?"

The hairs on the back of Arya's neck rose. Micah.

"Yeah," Arthur sighed. "I guess we gotta do that now." He hopped right back onto his horse.

"Good luck tryin' to convince the sheriff of lettin' him go," Hosea offered, his eyes doing quick back-and-forths between Arya and Arthur. Could he somehow see what happened between them last night? Was Arya fully exposing her embarrassment and simultaneous need for the outlaw?

"Arya, you comin'?" Arthur asked, bringing the girl right out of her thoughts.

She looked up at Hosea first, who was cocking his head with a look on his face that led the girl to know he somehow _knew_. And then Arthur, who held an expectant expression on his face, his blue eyes round and mouth pulled into a genuine smile.

"Yeah," she breathed. "Yeah, I'm coming."

* * *

Strawberry had always been a little town that Arya had wanted to live in. Back when she lived peacefully with her brother, they'd talked about leaving. They would have gathered their money and bought a little cabin not far from Strawberry. Arya would have found work as a seamstress or a doctor's aid, while her brother would have had no problem finding work with the builders. He was a strong and tall young man, healthy and indestructible. Or so she thought.

As they rode into town now, Arya's stomach was filled with heavy longing. Her brother and her had come up to Strawberry a couple of times, with Germanotta's wagon, and their hearts had filled with possibility. And now, her heart was shattering, and her insides filled with hot venom for the man who took her brother away.

She swore under her breath. One day she would get Colm O'Driscoll to pay.

The sheriff's office loomed across a small bridge, under which a skinny ravine had been dug through by a slow stream of fresh water. Strawberry's citizens were out and about, many of them in groups, gathered around the square. The sun was out, and midday was hot and welcoming in West Elizabeth.

"Before we go save this dumb ass," Arthur said, "I need to ask you somethin'."

Arya's mouth went instantly dry, and she fought herself to keep her eyes from betraying the vicious embarrassment she felt.

 _Oh no_ , she thought. He was going to ask her about last night. Somehow, he knew, or he remembered.

He stopped his horse by the bridge, inciting Arya to do the same. He turned upon her an icy blue glare from under the rim of his damaged hat. Sun blazed against his skin, and for an instant, Arya couldn't tear her eyes from his neck.

"That man from Six Point Cabin," Arthur said, voice clear. "He knew you."

A pause. "What?"

"The man inside the cabin," he continued insistently. "The O'Driscoll. He knew you. He said your name."

Arya sighed, gripped he reins of her horse. "He did."

"Why?" Arthur asked quickly. He was leaned forward, searching her face, evaluating. He'd always harbored a feeling that something wasn't quite right with her. He'd somehow found a way to suppress it under the friendship they held and the affinity he had for her.

When she didn't answer, he added, "It's been on my mind for a while. You never really spoke about it afterwards, either."

"Yes, I knew him," she admitted. She didn't feel the shame she thought she would when admitting it.

Arthur's next words were low and vicious. "How?" He was getting angry. Angry that she'd lied. Angry that she'd kept information from him. They were supposed to be friends.

She mulled over what Sadie had told her to say. Arya was a good liar. She was not good with sentimentality or relationships, but she was good at lying. However, looking at Arthur's face, made something cool wash against her chest.

She didn't want to lie. Not to him.

"We needed money." Her words came out croaked, and she cleared her throat. "We lived with an old widow. My brother wanted lands and freedom. But we had no money and Germanotta, although she was an angel sent down for us, was not the richest lady, and would not give us the rest of her fortune. We wouldn't take it away from her."

Arthur's head cocked to the side as he listened. His eyes glistened in the sun, but his expression remained stoic. He was looking for traces of a lie. He would find none.

"We didn't want to get indebted with the bank," Arya went on. "I wasn't making that much as a seamstress. And he, well… he spent most of his earnings at the saloon. Once he stopped drinking, thanks to Germanotta, he got into the life of an outlaw. He started hanging with some boys who didn't seem nice to me. Germanotta told him so and then he left, for about a week. When he came back, he told me he was going to do this one job, steal the money, and run away with me. But… you know the rest."

Arthur nodded solemnly. He remembered what she'd told Kieran on their way to Six Point Cabin. Colm and his boys had paid a personal visit to them during the night.

"And that man you saw at Six Point Cabin," she continued, "he was there the night they came. He was the lookout. When my brother had first started hanging around with them, well, that man, Kenny, he would come around the house a lot."

There was a long silence. A pregnant silence, in which Arthur had many questions. Yet he saw the look on the young woman's face; taunt and terrifying, and he decided the interrogation was over. He was generally satisfied with the answer, but he would need more in the future. He wanted to trust her, hell, he'd probably wanted to bed her last night. But aside from that, he wanted above all, to be able to call her a true ally. Until he knew more, he couldn't decide what exactly she was to him.

Arthur looked back at the sheriff's office. He sighed heavily. "Let's go free that dumb bastard," he grumbled.

"We should let him hang," Arya said quietly. The young man turned to her slowly, laying on her eyes of pure questioning. She shrugged. "He ain't a good man."

"Well, I ain't one either," Arthur answered lowly. "Should I hang?"

She bristled lightly in her saddle. Arthur caught her movement, however small and fleeting it was, and felt a marveling sensation in his chest. She didn't want him to die. Good.

"Do you trust him?" she asked defiantly, glancing at him sidelong.

"No," he replied. "But I don't trust _you_ entirely either."

At that, she flinched. Another quick and momentous show of emotion. "I understand."

"Now," he groaned, "are we doin' this or what?"

The sheriff's office was a stack of wood panels and dirty windows. The stairs creaked as the pair climbed them. The door groaned against Arthur's fist as he knocked. Upon entry, three men greeted them. Two arrogant deputies with glossy coats and glossier weapons, that suggested none of them had seen a serious fight. The only person who looked half decent was the sheriff, who sat at his desk.

"Can we help y'all?" one of the deputies asked.

"Yeah, err, I've come from Blackwater," Arthur began and in a faked tone. "I'm on the trail of a dangerous gang. Colm O'Driscoll. Heard you had some sort of incident."

The sheriff didn't even bother to look up at the pair as he said, "We don't deal with bounty hunters 'round here, son." Then, when he looked up from under his brows, he added, "Ma'am."

Arthur put his hands up in feigned surrender. "I-I was just wonderin' if we could get a description."

The sheriff sighed, turned to them, and shook his head. "Well, they weren't friends," he began. "Got into a fight. Two men got killed. Now, one of 'em is an idiot and the other's some kind of dumb mick, so maybe them's your boys."

Arya looked around the jail house. The cells on the top floor were empty. She saw stairs at the back that led to a basement, which she was sure held their lucky prisoner.

"You can look right enough," the sheriff added, "when we hang 'em."

One of the deputies with a glossy red coat opened the door, and that was their cue. They were dismissed.

"Thank you, sheriff," Arthur mumbled as he signaled for Arya to follow him out.

Once the door was shut and they stood out in the sun, Arya veered on Arthur with a wicked grin. "Well, we tried," she said, voice high.

Arthur tried to stifle his smile but smirked when he saw the expression on her face. "Not hard enough," he grumbled.

They stared at each other for a second, before a shrill, and very familiar voice, cut through the air. "Let me outta here, you maggots!"

Arya rolled her eyes. "That would be Micah, I suppose?"

Arthur shrugged, beckoning her along. They walked along the side of the sheriff's office, to where a bundle of crates had been left unused. As soon as they rounded a corner, a light rain began to shimmer. Arya was grateful for the freshness, but mostly for the moisture on her skin. It would do, for now, to wash away all the grime.

Through a window, held by metal bars, they spotted white hands. "Arthur? Arthur!"

"Hello, old friend," Arthur drawled as they both neared the window. "Had a good time, did you?"

Micah's ugly face peered through the slats. He was dirty, hair a mad cluster, with mud crusting his cheeks and whiskers. He wore nothing but a white shift and dark trousers. The look he gave them when he saw them was pure animal instinct to survive. He knew he was a dead man walking.

"You gonna get me outta here?" he asked after a nervous giggle. Then those dead-fish-eyes landed on Arya, and his face split into a grin. "You brought the pretty thing, too."

"Shut up," Arya grumbled as she leaned against the wall beside the window.

Micah sniffed. "Phew," he whistled. "Ya'll stink."

Arya turned to him abruptly. "Uh, newsflash, you piece of fuck," she growled. "You look like hell chewed you up and spat you right out."

Micah chuckled. "Ooh," he cooed, feigning a shiver. "Claws, claws, claws."

"I ain't decided yet if you're worth savin'," Arthur drawled after a low sigh.

Micah turned his gaze on the other man. "Real funny," he sneered.

In a mocking tone, Arthur said, "Oh, I ain't jokin', cowpoke."

Arya sniggered and leaned her shoulder against the brick wall.

Arthur bent down to grasp the metal bars containing Micah, and growled lowly, "I heard so much bluster out of your mouth these past six months, and now, I got an opportunity to watch you be silenced."

Arya had never seen Arthur so cold and cruel, especially to his own gang members. But everyone held something against Micah, whatever it may be, and would not hesitate at an opportunity to dangle his life before his eyes.

Micah looked at Arthur from under his blond brows. "Well, you gotta do somethin'," he growled from behind clenched teeth.

"Why?" Arya sighed, peaking in to see Micah's furtive gaze meet hers.

"I always looked up to you, Arthur," Micah said. Arya rolled her eyes. Oh, so he would play the victim card and try to play with people's feelings.

Arthur grumbled, "Well, that's your first mistake." He turned to fix a gaze on Arya before turning back to the prisoner. "Listen, there's one little problem. There's only two of us and there's a whole town full of people wantin' to see you swing."

Micah, bless his acting, began to look at Arthur with a begging look; brows pulled up, eyes glossy. Even Arya had to hand it to him; he was a good actor.

"You got to do somethin', Arthur. Arya. Please."

If it was up to Arya, she'd let Micah swing. But it was up to Arthur, and then some. It all boiled down to Dutch, always had and always would. And she needed Dutch to find Colm. She knew that deliberately letting Micah swing would just deter her already precarious relationship with the boisterous leader.

"You got any dynamite?" Micah asked. Arthur sighed, began looking around the small courtyard.

Arya understood he was actually and fully considering saving the blond-haired outlaw.

"Arthur," Arya ground behind her teeth. When the young man turned to her, he was giving her a look that seemed to say, "what do you want me to do?"

"See that steam pulley?" Micah insisted from behind his cage. "Hook that over the bars, see if you can pull them off."

Arthur hoisted up the hook of the steam pulley. "You should step back," he said to Arya. Then he looked around. "And maybe take cover. We won't have all the time in the world once I bust him out."

Arthur hooked the metal bars to the steam pulley, grumbling about modern disasters under his breath. Arya took cover behind a cluster of crates, eyes fixed on the sheriff's door, as Arthur pulled the lever. The metal bars came screeching, along with Micah's glee, and in a swift go, had fallen clean off, taking with them a huge chunk of the brick wall.

That is when all hell broke loose, essentially. If Arya had known what kind of mess she'd be stepping in, she would have stayed at the camp, taken a bath, and nursed her hangover.

Arthur rushed to Micah, gave him a pistol, and then rushed to Arya's side. Arya watched from behind the crate as Micah tumbled out, dirty and coughing. Behind him, a mustached-man climbed through the rubble, only to be met by the end of Micah's pistol. Brains and blood splattered onto the ground.

"What the hell!" she yelled over the now roaring rain.

Micah turned to them, blond hair plastered to his face. "He was an O'Driscoll!" he shouted back.

Somehow, Arya doubted that. But she had no time to mull over Micah's tendencies for cold-blooded murder. The sheriff and the deputies that she had moments ago faced, were now rushing out of the building. Rain made the dirt into mud, and as they ran to find cover, the sheriff began to shoot.

Arya grasped her revolver. She knew this was going to be a blood bath. Somehow, she found it in her to dissociate, and as she rose over the crates, it wasn't really her who pulled the trigger.

Bullets zapped by her ears. Wood from the barrels and crates came crashing and careening towards her and Arthur. She shot one of the deputies, while Arthur and Micah took care of the other two. But they were not the only three to worry about.

As Arya wheeled on her heels to follow Arthur through the mud, perhaps back to the horses, she saw armed-citizens gearing up and aiming at them. Women and children were screaming and running to find shelter, while courageous young men took up arms against the three outlaws.

Arthur gripped the front of Arya's shirt and threw her at arm's length just as a spray of bullets crashed around them. Arthur fell to his knees behind the wagon, dragging the girl along with him. She slid against the wooden exterior, mud and rain blurring her vision.

Micah jogged by them. "Don't go that way!" Arthur yelled. "We got to get the hell outta here!"

But Micah wasn't listening as he ducked behind a slab of bricks. "I've got unfinished business!" he shouted back over the groan of the rain. "Trust me!"

Thunder clapped and lightening clashed overhead. Arya's rage boiled inside her as she crouched out from behind the wagon and waddled towards Micah. When she reached him, he was staring at her with a frown. And when he came to open his mouth to – no doubt – give some snarky remark, she cracked her knuckles against his jaw.

The force of her impact sent him sprawling onto his back.

"We don't have time, you idiot!" she screamed.

She could hear Arthur protesting and shooting simultaneously behind her as she clambered over Micah and punched him again. By that point, the blond outlaw was covered in mud and soaked through.

Arya gripped him by the front of his white shirt and hauled him to his feet. He tried to push her away but slipped as his bare feet caught the mud. Once he made contact with the ground, Arya dragged him back to where Arthur was hidden behind a wagon.

"Let's go," he grunted. He gave Micah a hard stare as Arya went around the other end of the wagon. A strange look passed over Micah's face, one that both Arya and Arthur didn't want to delve deeper into.

"You come with us or we leave you here to die," Arya gritted through clenched teeth. To hell with Dutch and his orders. If he was sending them after a man who didn't give a sit about them, then they didn't have to risk everything to protect him.

Micah spat on the ground. "You'll regret this."

"I don't care," she grumbled back, hearing the faint echoes of gunfire. "I'm not scared of you."

But before Micah could spit something snarky back at her, Arthur hauled her to her feet. "Let's go!" he pressed. "It's clear for now."

Arya pocketed her rage and ignored the grumblings of Micah as she ran across the muddy bridge, over the faint roar of the stream, and back to where they'd hitched their rides. She ignored the lone bodies strewn across the dirt, gaping and bloody wounds opened to the sky. Shouts and screams rang out from everywhere in town, but she ignored the growing army at her back as she mounted up on Rori.

Micah stole a horse, obviously.

"Ride!" Arthur bellowed.

When Arya looked back, she saw a dozen men running towards them, rifles and pistols ready to fire.

"Ride!"

Rori didn't need more persuasion. They flew out of Strawberry like bullets. Hooves crashed over wood and mud as the trio raced out into the rainy dusk. Wind seared at Arya's eyes until tears pricked on her lashes.

The mud on her pants was drying by the time they stopped. The rain had ceased and left behind the smell of clean grass and freshness. They'd been riding for at least half an hour, in complete silence, until Arthur stopped some ways off the road. They were an hour's ride from camp.

"You wanna tell me why you was goin' around murderin' people?" Arthur growled at Micah.

The man rolled his eyes, one hand on the reins, the other loosely at his side. "Just some of my business, Mr. Morgan," he replied in that snake-like tone.

Arya huffed. "We should have let you swing," she grunted.

Micah glowered at her from under blond brows. His eyes, icy blue and sickening, were trying to peel her, bit by bit. "You should have let me get my guns," he grumbled.

Arya's eyes widened. "We were about to get killed just 'cause you wanted your guns back?" she growled.

Micah spat on the ground again. "And you'll regret layin' hands on me like that, woman."

She rolled her eyes. "And as I said, I'm not scared of you, Micah Bell."

"Come get me," he gnashed at her.

Arthur reeled his horse between them. "Enough!" he growled loudly. "I ain't having this fuss with you. Now, let's get back to camp before the search party finds us."

Micah's horse stomped backwards as the man shook his head. "I can't go back to Dutch like this," he said.

Arthur shrugged. "Why not?"

"Scared?" Arya teased.

Micah ignored her. "I can't come back until I have somethin' for him," he answered. "If I go back now, I ain't nothin' good to him."

A pause broke the tension as Arthur mulled it over. If it was just Arya, she'd tell Micah to get lost and never come back. But Arthur was loyal to Dutch, and that was all that needed to be said.

"I don't want to have to save your ass again," Arthur grumbled, readjusting his hat. Micah gave a snarky laugh, something blurring along the lines of insanity and childishness, and was off like a bullet, galloping in the opposite direction.

Arthur ignored the girl as he trotted past her. "Arthur," she called out. Her horse followed. "You shouldn't trust him."

"You've said that already," he groaned.

"But I mean it."

"Hell, I don't trust him either," the cowboy grunted. "But Dutch likes him and Dutch sees somethin' in him. I trust Dutch."

"How long has Micah been with you?" she countered, her mare catching up with Arthur. "What, like six months? And he's been raining down hell on the gang and – "

"And how long have you been with us, huh?" Arthur growled back, eyes meeting hers in a clash of fury. "You gonna be with us for what, another few weeks? Until we find Colm and you can kill him? And then what? Huh? You'll be off like a bullet and we'll never see you again. So why should I listen to you? Why should I even trust you?"

The only sound audible was the hooves of their horses. So was this what it was all about? Arthur didn't fully trust her because she would leave? Or he didn't trust himself not to fall for her, knowing she'd be in the wind?

"Arthur, I-"

"You know nothin' about this gang," he said, voice mellowed out from the cruel tone it had been moments ago. "You've been with us a handful of weeks only. Don't start tellin' me who to trust or who not to trust. I know you gotta bug against Micah, hell we all do. But Dutch trusts him and we all trust Dutch. He's all we have."

That was the most Arthur had ever revealed about his relationship with Dutch. Although Arya could already guess the father-son dynamic between the two, she'd never guessed just how deep it ran.

After another moment of silence, Arthur sighed. "I appreciate you lookin' out for us," he said. "I do. But the only thing to fear from Micah is that he's a little crazy."

Arya swallowed hard. He couldn't have been more wrong.

"Now c'mon on," he said, his voice icy cold. "Let's get back to camp. We have a scam to do."

And just like that, their friendship dwindled to what it had been before. Arya hadn't known just how fragile it had been. Now she did. Trying to get between him and Dutch had cost her their friendship.

She'd have to try another way.


	12. CHAPTER ELEVEN:THE PRINCESS AND THE FROG

**The start of THE MISSION. WOO. Okay, so, I'll be spending a couple chapters on this mission, so we will not see a lot of the gang here. A LOT of Arthur/Arya (Arthurya?) business here. I hope you like!**

 **RESPONSES TO REVIEWS:**

 **SincerlyyYourss: I think you will quite like this one, darling!**

 **Globetrotter28: Here, I fixed it. Thank you so much for letting me know! Enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE PRINCESS AND THE FROG

 _It's always on a night like tonight_  
 _I think that you can read my mind_  
 _'Cause when you look at me with those eyes  
I'm speechless_

 _Day one_

The wagon rolled to a stop in front of the hotel. Behind it, in the mud, was a trail of tracks. A man, dressed in a fine tailored suit, jumped down from the driver's seat. His sandy blond hair was oiled back behind his ears to reveal a sharp jaw and keen blue eyes. A three-day stubble adorned the edges of his jaw.

He opened the door to the bogey, extending a hand to the young woman inside. An elegant hand, covered in a fine white lace glove, grasped the man's outstretched hand. She emerged onto the mud, caramel locks glinting in the midday sun. She wore a fine silk dress the color of cream that clung to her body like a second skin and fanned out around her at the hips. Across her bodice was an intricate design of beads, woven into the silk of her dress. Although the garment was simple, every man in Valentine turned their attention to her. She was simply stunning. Not a regular woman that frequented these parts; her skin was clean and glowing, and she had a single beaded necklace of pearls around her neck.

The man helped the young woman out of the bogey. She smiled up at him lovingly, arm in arm with him, as they walked into the hotel.

Miles was doodling on the inside of the records book when the couple walked in. He was astonished at the woman's beauty. Her hair was pinned up, exposing an elegant, cream-colored neck. Where her shoulder met her collarbone, a fading purple hickey remained, which could only have been given by her husband.

"Good day, sir," Miles stuttered, giving them a full-teeth smile. "Madam."

The young lady inclined her head elegantly.

"How may I be of service?" Miles asked.

The man, who looked rugged and rough under his black suit, gave Miles a curt nod. "We'd like a room for a week," he demanded. His voice was gruff and authoritative, which made Miles frown deeply.

"Oh, I'm afraid I'm all booked starting tomorrow," Miles answered as politely as he could. "May I reference you to the saloon?"

The young lady cocked her head. "I do not appreciate sleeping in close quarters with common whores, kind sir," she said, voice soft, but Miles could detect some kind of sharper edge to her tone.

"My wife and I want a room here," the man insisted. "No where else. Perhaps this will convince you?" He pulled out a stack of dollar bills and deposited it carefully on the counter before Miles' eyes.

The teller's heart spurred, and he nodded frantically. _That_ was a lot of money. "Oh, yes, of course," he spluttered, smiling eagerly. "One of my tenants is, sadly, celibate for the week. You can have room 3B. What name shall I put it under?"

"Casey Brown," answered the man. "And this is my wife, Emily."

Miles dotted down the names and then gave the couple a key. "Off you go, Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Should I send someone out to your wagon to fetch your belongings?"

Mr. Brown nodded. "That would be nice, yes."

Miles sent one of his staff members to park and clean out the wagon, while the couple walked up to their room.

Once inside, Arya stepped away from Arthur and shed off her role with a shrug. "I hate playing a posh woman," she shivered.

Arthur stepped in and closed the door. "Well, it ain't too bad," he grumbled.

They examined the room. Not the Grand Hotel, but it would do. There was a sturdy dresser that would surely fit all the dresses and suits Grimshaw had packed for them. Beside it was a table and a chair. A window opened up to the busy main street of Valentine. A rusty carpet. A night table with a single candle.

Only one bed.

Arya's cheeks warmed, and she faced the window to keep Arthur from seeing. They hadn't really talked since they'd saved Micah from swinging. They had made it back to camp in utter silence and had kept it that way until the morning of their excavation to Valentine. During the one day they'd spent at camp, Arthur was evasive. He avoided spending time with her and Sadie, which had made Arya ache. She never thought she'd feel hurt for that man, but after their friendship had bloomed – and after that drunken night only she remembered – there were feelings inside her she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Before they had left, Grimshaw had grilled them with details about their cover story. She'd dressed Arya in the awful garment she now wore and educated the young woman on proper conduct. She had almost laughed when she'd seen Arthur all dressed up, but then remembered they now walked on hot coals.

She could feel his coldness still as he answered the door and took their bags from the skinny errand boy.

"You should get settled in," he grumbled. "I'll go and make myself known to the clerk." He wasn't meeting her eye.

"Don't be too suspicious," she said.

A small smirk was the only thing she received as he walked out of the room.

Arthur had been fighting himself all morning. Not only because the young woman looked absolutely ravishing in her dress, which exposed curves that he'd never seen before, but also because he wanted to apologize. He'd acted rough after Strawberry, and only because his blood was high, and adrenaline still sang in his veins. He was angry and confused, and he'd sadly taken it out on the girl. He'd fought himself all morning, from the first rays of sunlight, not to walk to her tent and apologize. Or squeeze her hand before they embarked on the wagon. Or say something sweet about her appearance.

He didn't know why he hadn't done those things, and now, walking down the to foyer, he regretted it. He should go back up there and put a smile on her lips. After all, she had only tried to look out for him.

And Arthur was beginning to get scared of losing her.

"Mr. Brown!" Miles said from behind the counter. "Is everything all right with your room?"

"Ah, all is fine!" Arthur said with a wave and a goofy grin. "I actually need a bit of your help."

The teller smarted. "You do?"

"Yes," Arthur answered as he leaned against the counter. "I'm actually lookin' to expand my business."

"And what business might you have, kind sir?"

"A cotton pickin' one," Arthur declared boisterously, trying to get as much attention as possible. "Got lands south of Saint Denis. But, sadly, the pickin' isn't so good this year. And now, I'm lookin' to – uh – make more profit elsewhere. My buddy from the casino-"

"Which one?" Miles interrupted, which was the first sign of his interest.

"The boat casino on the marina." Arthur glanced sideways, at the people milling outside the hotel doors.

"Ah, yes," Miles hummed.

"He told me I could come up here and find some things worth… expandin' on."

Miles looked up at Arthur with a wide smile. "You're right, Mr. Brown," he said. "These lands offer a great many opportunities. Gold, diamonds, oil. Many men walk through these doors with big pockets and leave with even heavier ones. You've come to the right place."

Arthur smiled, but beneath it, it was all fangs and claws. "Ah, so I've come to the right man!"

"Of course," Miles laughed. "You'll find that the hotel and the saloon are the hub of the town. Everything that happens either passes through here or there."

"Well," Arthur sighed, clapping the counter, "I hope to find such investments here. You'll let me know if you here of anythin'?"

Miles opened his arms invitingly. "Of course, I will, kind sir."

Arthur left the hotel with a light in his step. He knew Miles would not offer up the oil investment plan right away. He was smarter than Arthur had thought, but the latter knew the whispers would get around town fast. Especially now that he was planting the same seed in the saloon.

The bartender was much colder than Miles. But after Arthur ordered a second beer, the bartender – Alec – was keener on listening. Arthur told the whole spiel of lies he was fed by Hosea and Grimshaw, and Alec listened attentively. It wouldn't be long before word spread town-wide. That's exactly what they wanted.

Arthur ordered two plates of meat and potatoes to go and carried it all the way up to his shared room with Arya. He almost stopped dead in his tracks when he lay eyes on her.

She had been busy. Their bags were unpacked with their clothes hanging in the dresser and their other belongings scattered here and there. Her perfume bottles sat on the table, and Arthur's hair oil was placed on the night table. She'd brought one book, which she was reading now.

Arya sat on the edge of the window, the pane open to let a fresh breeze wash across her face. The sun streamed in hot and bright against the expanse of chest and neck exposed to Arthur. Her flesh shined, a perfect, harmonious match to the creamy pearls strung around the base of her neck.

She looked like a poised young woman, sitting straighter than a rod, her face watching him delicately.

"Food," she said.

A shiver raced down Arthur's spine. With her hair pined up in a small bun, her features looked elongated and sharp, but she looked so ravishing.

"I thought you'd need – or uh – want some," he stuttered.

She smiled slowly, closed her book, and stood to meet him. "Thank you," she said, taking one of the plates from his hands. She returned to the window pane and sat facing him.

After clearing his throat, Arthur timidly sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at his food. He began to eat slowly, his stomach now suddenly queasy after seeing Arya. "You're lookin' like a real lady of high society," he grumbled with a tone he hoped was humorous and not grumpy.

She huffed, mouth full of potatoes. "I can't really slouch in this ridiculous corset," she mumbled. The young woman motioned to her dress, which was not a good thing. Arthur's eyes almost immediately found the curve of her breasts, where the sun illuminated the soft skin, and he had to clear his throat again.

"I don't blame women who are grumpy if they gotta wear that all day," he offered, averting his eyes. He hoped his cheeks were not red, but he feared they were by the heat on his face.

She gave a small, polite laugh and returned to her plate.

They ate in silence for a while. Arthur knew this was his best time to apologize. If he didn't do it now, he would never, and he was man enough to admit he needed to apologize for his past behavior.

"Arya," he said tentatively. Her eyes glided up to him slowly, still chewing on a piece of meat. "I need to apologize."

Her cheeks reddened, and she looked down for a brief instant. "Arthur." Her voice was a low whine, but before she could tell him to stop, he intervened.

"I mean it," he said. "I didn't act right. After Strawberry, I was angry, and mostly at Micah. I know you were just tryin' to help out, but I had Dutch speakin' in one ear and you tryin' to get me to see reason in the other. I should have acted better. I'm sorry."

His apology hung heavy in the air. Staring at her, he saw comprehension cross her features; a frown, a slow nod, and then a small smile.

"Oh." She coughed and readjusted in her seat. "I thought…"

"What?"

"Never mind," she sighed. "I accept your apology."

Arthur smiled victoriously. He didn't know that the girl had thought he was apologizing for their drunken flirtations at the saloon.

"I want to apologize too," she murmured. "I shouldn't interfere in the gang so much. You were right. I haven't been here long, and anyway, my stay isn't guaranteed."

Something in Arthur shifted. A burning pain spread across his chest, warm and thick. It clawed up his throat and seared into his mouth until he blurted, "What?"

Arya looked at him sharply. "Well, when we find Colm and kill him," she ventured, "am I going to have a place in the gang?"

Arthur didn't hesitate. "I hope so."

She smirked, and her lack of debate made the cruel heat in Arthur fade away. He was not ready to see her go.

They ate their supper together; the young woman perched on the windowsill and the young man on the edge of the bed. When the plates were empty, they continued talking. Arya told him about her days in Valentine, as a seamstress, when her brother was well and alive. He listened attentively to every detail that she gave. Her story was long, and remarkably so. Arthur found some hitches that he wanted to explore. There was just something inexplicable about her. But he couldn't ask her. It couldn't be formed into a question. It lay right there, beyond his reach, on the tip of his tongue, but it slipped from his fingers every time.

One day, he hoped, she'd tell him.

When the sun was setting and the sky was a splash of orange and mango yellow, Arthur sat on the floor, leaned against the bed, and told her about Mary. Their young days together. Her family and his immense love for her. It seemed trivial, to see the entire story from afar, but Arthur remembered living it with a fiery passion; thorns and needles and blood.

He was glad to be done with her.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Arthur," Arya said. "That girl, however much she loved you, was toxic to you."

Arthur frowned, nodded, and sighed, "I know."

"There's nothing more toxic than someone who strings you along, and who is only nice and sweet on you when they want something from you."

Arthur looked at up her. She'd leaned against the now closed window, the backdrop of stars and darkness surrounding her like a halo. She was sleepy; pink cheeks and droopy eyes, but she was adorable.

"You say that as if you know what it feels like," he answered, not taking his eyes off her.

She shrugged, but despite the nonchalance, he could see the tension behind her eyes. "You can't live in this world without a little bit of hurt," she replied, smiling tightly.

"I'm just glad…" he trailed off, eyes on the wooden floor now. "I'm just glad we're friends." At that, she bristled ever the slightest. Her back straightened and her shoulders tensed.

But then she smiled. "Me too," she said, followed by a wide yawn that made Arthur laugh and get to his feet.

"We should sleep," he grunted, stretching his sore muscles. "The investors are comin' tomorrow, and we both got jobs to do."

She jumped down from the windowsill and nodded. "You're right."

Arthur hesitated awkwardly. "I'll leave to let you – uh – change," he said quietly.

"Actually," she quipped quickly. Her cheeks were now deep crimson. "I need help."

Arthur frowned. He watched as she pulled out a dressing screen with opaque sheets. She turned her back to him, gripping the metal post of the dressing screen, exposing the intricate layout of laces on the back of her dress.

"I can't do this alone," she muttered.

Suddenly, the room became too small. Heat crawled deep in Arthur's stomach and he struggled to keep himself in check. She was glancing at him sideways, the glow of the only candle softening her sharp features. Chapped yet full lips turned into a timid smile.

"Just unlace me," she said, a breathy laugh leaving her shortly after, as if to soften the blow.

Arthur looked like a dumb idiot, standing there, mouth agape, and staring at the smooth planes of her upper back. The heat in his belly was a raging fire, and he hoped beyond anything that it didn't slide down between his legs.

He would surely break and burst at the seams.

He braced his fingers on the hem of her dress, pulling slowly at the first silk laces. He gulped, seeing the muscles work in her neck and back.

"You have to start from the bottom," she instructed, not looking at him anymore. "Work your way up."

Arthur nodded but said nothing as his fingers traced her spine lightly, grasping the ends of the laces at the bottom of her back. Just before the curve of her ass. Arthur's cheeks and neck bloomed a deep red as he let his eyes roam free over the defined curve of her _derriere_. She was delicate, yet bold and strong and defined. He liked that.

Slowly, Arthur worked the laces loose up and up on her back. The laces fell undone between his fingers, as soft as he imagined her skin would feel. Thoughts swam in his head, the deafening silence heavy on his shoulders. The tension grew, so thick that any knife would not be able to slice it. Arthur's ears roared with blood, with whispers to caress his fingers along her neck.

The fading purple hickey caught his eye. He was surprised he hadn't seen it before.

He frowned, and automatically, his fingers grazed the spot. The girl flinched slightly, and goosebumps peppered her flesh.

"Who – what?" he stammered.

She turned and held the loose dress against her chest, the back of it now falling open with her movements. She pressed it hard against her, pushing up her breasts, the candle casting intricate shadows along them. Arthur hissed inwardly.

"Nothing," she said sharply, but her cheeks were crimson again.

Arthur vaguely remembered the taste of her filling his mouth; sweet as candy. A frown knit his brows and he studied her expression. Oh. _Oh_. He'd done that.

He reached out for her, yet not quite touching her, and said, "I did… that?"

She flicked her head sideways and shrugged. "We were drunk," she admitted.

Dread crawled up his shoulders. "Did we…"

"No!" she said quickly, _too_ quickly. "We didn't do… anything."

He needed to know if he'd done something to her and he couldn't remember. He needed to know if he'd hurt her, and even though he was embarrassed and so was she, he had to make sure. "Then why do you have a hickey I gave you?" he asked slowly.

She looked down, then met his eyes timidly. "We almost… did," she muttered. "But then Lenny got arrested."

Arthur's chest soared with heat. "Did I hurt you?" he asked. Damned drunken fool. He should never drink around ladies, especially not her.

"No, no." She shook her head. "Of course not, Arthur."

He sighed, relieved. The only thing that bugged him was that he couldn't remember whatever they had done, and that was probably worth remembering. Especially with Arya.

Arya smiled shyly and then rushed behind the dressing screen.

Arthur shrugged out of his suit coat and vest with a stifled sigh. His heart was racing in his chest as he fashioned himself a pillow with his coat and vest and lay on the floor beside the window. He listened to the fabric of Arya's dress as she changed. She was fighting with it, no doubt, as she cursed quietly and took her merry time.

She emerged wearing her white shift with her normal trousers. A pang spread across Arthur's chest. Did she not trust him enough to just wear her shift? He shook himself. Of course not. She was just being modest, and he respected that.

"You'll just sleep on the floor?" she protested, hands on hips, standing over him with a frown.

"Yeah?"

"There's a perfectly good bed, right there." She gestured to it nonchalantly.

"You have it."

"But Arthur-"

"I'm alright here," he sighed, smiling as she rolled her eyes. He wasn't going to push himself into bed with her, no matter how modest they kept it. He knew that if he lay beside her, with the ghost of her hand against his, he didn't know what he'd do. And he didn't want to risk it.

"Fine then," she groaned.

The bed squeaked horrifically when she threw herself under the covers. Arthur closed his eyes and smiled as the girl tossed and the bed squeaked, and the girl cursed.

"Good night," he mused.

The candle was blown out harshly. "Good night."

Arthur listened to the darkness, wishing he could be closer, to hear her breathing against his chest.

Arya looked at the ceiling through the dark, wishing her bed was warm with Arthur's body next to hers.

* * *

 **Sorry for the tension?**

 **We will be meeting the investors tomorrow. I will have a reference guide at the end of each chapter to help you guys remember who is who, and who is married to who, etc.**


	13. CHAPTER TWELVE: MASQUERADE

**Hey y'all! Welcome back. I've got a very, very interesting chapter for you guys!**

 **RESPONSES TO REVIEWS:**

 **To the guests who said they loved the tension: HERE'S MORE**

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* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE: MASQUERADE

 _Tomorrow, tonight, the rest of my life_  
 _I wanna be the man you want me to be_  
 _So startin' right now, girl, tell me everything you need_

 _Day two_

Arya adorned the jewelry that Grimshaw had packed for her. Sitting at the table of their room, letting the morning sun wash warmth onto her face, the young woman clasped on her golden necklace and beaded bracelets. She slid her ring onto her ring finger with a slight smile.

Arthur had a matching one slid tightly around his ring finger; a matching set that Grimshaw had definitely stolen. It was also definitely not real gold, and Arthur had a peculiar thought as he watched Arya adorn the finalities to her attire. He imagined himself on one knee, holding up to her a ring, her face pulled up in utter amazement. He would buy any type of gold for her.

The pair had sported their best attires for their first day preying on the investors. They'd heard them stumbling into their rooms earlier in the morning. Arthur and Arya had to act quick now. Arthur wore his best suit and had oiled his hair back, while the young woman wore a midnight-blue dress with golden jewelry that made her shine.

She was the most important part of the job. Arya would most likely get more information out of the wives than Arthur would out of the men.

"All ready to go?" she asked absentmindedly.

Arthur had not forgotten about the night before; how close his fingers were to her flesh. He'd also not forgotten about the hickey he'd given her. He wished he could remember how she'd felt, or what she'd done. Had he been holding her? Embracing her? That night would forever be subject to his wildest imaginations.

"Shouldn't you – uh – cover that, maybe?" he stuttered, standing by the door, gesturing to the fading blue/black hickey.

She paused, standing before the desk, cheeks blazing. "Well, how?"

"A scarf?" he suggested with a shy shrug.

Her eyes round, she answered, "Arthur, it's blazing hot outside."

"What about all those things you women put on your faces?"

"Makeup?"

"If that's what it's called."

Arya huffed and hurried to his side. "There isn't any makeup good enough to cover this," she gritted. "And besides, this hickey actually makes our couple cameo a little more credible."

He grumbled under his breath. Well, she'd be marked as his, which would mean less trouble for her.

"I'll head to the saloon to find the men," he mumbled as she hooked her arm in his. The familiar tingle in his stomach started, and he wanted her closer.

She hugged his arm against her, and said, "I'll go find the ladies."

They left the hotel looking like the happy married couple that they weren't. The sun was high, and the weather was pleasant, but everyone knew the heat would drag through as soon as midday struck. Valentine was busy, with workers and inhabitants milling the muddied streets. Newspaper boys hollered. Dogs barked. Wagons screeched by on rusty wheels.

She parted ways with Arthur before the saloon and headed for the church.

Surely, as she'd guessed, four women in fine silk and fabric sat under personal umbrellas in the church's courtyard. Three armed men stood a respectful distance away; far enough to make those ladies believe they weren't in a shitty town, but close enough to remind them. The four of them, giggling and goofing off, seemed to be playing a card game on the wooden table they'd pulled out before them. They all looked similar; three of them with dark brown hair, all of them with eyes a different shade of blue.

"Ladies," she sing-songed to them, climbing the small steps to join them in the courtyard.

One of them, the one sitting on the left of them all, gave Arya an up and down. She must have judged Arya deeming of their attention because she beckoned the other three girls.

"Are you lost, sweetie?" the woman asked. Arya knew she was younger than them, but maybe by just a couple years, not decades. She reminded herself that women of high society had nothing better to do than pick and pull at each other.

"Actually, no," Arya breathed. From her perch now, standing before them all, she could see the first woman was very, _very_ pregnant. Arya's eyes went round when she saw the woman's stomach, stretching the fabric of her dress taunt. If that woman had to give birth, Arya hoped it wasn't in Valentine. There was no doctor. "You're – you're pregnant!" she babbled.

The four ladies burst into polite giggles, holding lace-gloved hands to their mouths. "Why, yes," the lady in question answered sarcastically. "You are quite observant."

Arya righted herself, gulping heavily. "I mean, shouldn't you be resting?" she asked.

The woman frowned, cocked her head of curly brown locks. "Don't worry, youngling," she quipped. "I've got my midwife traveling with me. Worry not."

Arya nodded quickly. "Of course," she said.

"Say," the other woman drawled, "you've got a very peculiar accent. Where are you from, little one?"

Arya had to restrain herself from calling the woman out on the youngling comments. But she smiled tightly, sat down where the woman was gesturing to, and said, "Delaware."

"Ah!" This from the one sitting directly in front of Arya, with a tight knot of almost black hair and crystalline blue eyes. "My mama had family up there."

"Clementine's entire family came from the east coast," the first, pregnant woman said, with an air of supreme knowledge. "Until she met Loyd and moved down here."

Arya saw her opening. "Loyd is your husband?" she asked Clementine.

The girl nodded and extended a delicate hand to Arya. "Clementine Sweeney, pleased to meet you."

Arya smiled broadly. "Emily Brown," she quipped in what she hoped was a little arrogant. "My husband, Casey, is up here looking to invest, and he's dragged me with him." Her groan was just the perfect cherry-on-top.

"Our husbands have done the same," pregnant one said dryly. "My husband says, 'Summer, we leaving', and I've got no choice."

Arya smiled, but inwardly, she knew that she would have to please Summer to get all the information she needed. "Aren't they a bore with their work?" she whispered lowly.

Summer giggled and gave her cat eyes. "Don't tell 'em that, though," she said.

Arya introduced herself to the other two ladies, who were Arabetha Thompson and Anna-Rose Bailey. They were two women of shy nature, but with keen eyes. They looked at Arya with matching deep blue eyes with suspicion and almost mockery.

They spent the entire morning and rest of the afternoon talking and sharing stories. Summer was the first one to get pregnant out of the bunch, which was the only accomplishment that counted for Southern women. Anna-Rose was the newest addition to the party; the poor girl was plucked from her New Orleans home to marry an old man by the name of Jules Bailey who had yet to produce a legitimate heir. Arya could see that Anna-Rose was not anticipating the _making_ of said heirs.

Summer and Clementine were close friends, and the bond they shared went deeper than the surface. Shared looks spoke volumes, and little hand touches meant more than words ever could. Clementine Sweeney had been trying to get pregnant ever since her wedding night, but to no avail. Summer encouraged her to keep trying, as motherhood was the only and most precious gift in the life of a woman.

Arya almost gagged.

"What about you, Emily?" Summer asked, after they'd all taken turns explaining their sob stories over their failed pregnancies.

Arya bristled. "Oh, well, we try!" She might have been a bit too enthusiastic.

Summer smiled as if someone had told her the biggest secret. "Is that why you've got the most unholy of hickies on your shoulder?" she drawled.

Arya blushed. "We just got married not too long ago," she babbled to change the topic. "It's a very… new concept to us." Somehow, talking about her sex-life with a man she hadn't even kissed made tingles erupt all over the young woman's body.

"Oh." Summer scrunched up her face. "He ain't gentle?"

Arya frowned deeply. She could never imagine Arthur wanting to hurt someone in that way. "No, he is very kind to me," she answered blatantly.

By then, the sun was low on the horizon. They'd eaten little sandwiches brought out by one of the security men. Arya's belly was growling for food, and somewhere, deep in her chest, was an ache to see Arthur.

Summer clapped her hands. The topic changed drastically, and Arya was grateful.

"We should be headin' to our husbands, ladies!" As if birds flocking to their nest, the three young ladies stood and gathered around Summer. They helped her to her feet, passing comments about how beautiful she looked and just how wonderful of a mother she'd be.

"Are you sure you should be walking?" Arya asked with real concern lacing her tone.

Summer gave the girl a pert look. "Some say walkin' provokes childbirth," she answered. "I want this thing outta me as soon as possible. You can say all the nicest things about childbearin' when you're not pregnant. When you are, it's a whole other story, my girl."

Arabetha, with hair the color of dark flames, was on Summer's left side while Clementine occupied the right. Arya walked behind with Anna-Rose, following the small steps of the trio ahead. All the women had the hem of their dresses dipped in mud, but none of them seemed to care. This was like a lazy vacation for them all.

Arya remembered how her life had definitely _not_ been a vacation when she worked here. _Life was unfair_ , she thought, as she walked in her skin-tight midnight-blue dress with pearls on it and silk lacing the embroidery. Here were the people of Valentine, working their skins off just to be able to make do. And here were these women who'd been spoon-fed their entire lives, thinking motherhood was the only preoccupation that mattered in life.

The saloon was fairly crowded by the time the five women made it. The dark was beginning to make itself known, and lone alcoholics and party-goers alike had started to mill through the swinging doors. Arya found Arthur with five other men, leaning on the bar. Bottles of beer and whiskey lay empty before them all, and Arya winced at the amount they must have drank.

Arthur's cheeks were pink when his blue eyes met hers across the room. He'd taken off his black coat and was just in his white blouse, sleeves rolled up to expose chiseled forearms.

"I'd take it that the handsome young man lookin' at you like he wanna eat you is your husband?" Summer asked. The woman was breathless and sweating, and if she didn't sit down soon, Arya feared a baby would be born in the saloon.

"Yeah, that's him," Arya mumbled, motioning to an empty table. They sat Summer down, who blew air through her mouth in wheezing gasps.

"I wish my husband still looked at me that way," she mumbled, something snarky and vicious lurking under her sweet, melodic voice. She gestured to her belly like it was a tumor. "Ever since I've been outta commission, he hasn't even lain his eyes on me. And don't kid yourself. I know where he goes when he leaves the house. I ain't no fool."

Arya flinched. That poor woman. For all the snobby and pert qualities she surely had, she didn't deserve the treatment her husband was putting her through.

"Summer, my darlin'!"

A boisterous man came careening down to their table, gathering Summer up in his arms and smooching her right on the lips. The sight was horrific. The man's salt and pepper hair was greasy and wet with sweat, which he probably also reeked of. Summer was trying to pry his hands from her face, scrunching up her nose, which made the whole kiss look grotesque.

"Neil Crawford!" Summer scolded, smacking his arm quite violently for a heavily pregnant woman. "What is wrong with you?"

The man laughed and shrugged, his black eyes scanning all the ladies surrounded. "I ain't permitted to show my wife some love?"

"Not when you're drunk, no," Summer growled, crossing her arms over her stomach. She gave a pouty face, and Arya almost laughed at how cute that was.

Neil was indeed very drunk. He smelled of whiskey and sweat, and his eyes seemed to be unable to focus on one point for more than a second. He wore a suit, but like Arthur, he'd discarded his coat. He wore a white blouse, unbuttoned to reveal the forest of black hair on his chest, and dark pants covered in what Arya _hoped_ was alcohol.

The other men Neil had been with flocked to their wives. Clementine smiled to a blond-haired man that looked more like a little boy. Arabetha refused to even look at the old man lurking behind her with a drunken slur.

Arya found Arthur at her side, the warmth of his body radiating off onto hers. When she looked up into his eyes, she could see that he was not as drunk as the other men. Tipsy, yes, but not totally dead like he'd been the other night. Whatever he had done to keep those men drunk and himself only tipsy was a miracle Arya did not wish to speak of.

The last time they'd been in here had almost ended in a night she would have never forgotten.

The reminder of their last jaunt in the saloon made the world tunnel to just his body, his eyes looking at her with a twinkle. A full mouth stretched into a smile, and Arya's skin erupted with fire. Tingles spread from her belly all the way to her fingertips. Her heart raced dramatically hard against her breastbone, the sound thundering in her ears. A shallow breath, and she was gulping.

"You've gotten yourself into the whiskey again?" she teased, but her voice came out tight.

Arthur frowned and reached out for her, warm hands tracing her wrists delicately. His mouth came close to her ear. "I didn't drink that much," he whispered quickly. The feeling of his breath warming the side of her face almost made her shudder.

"The young married couple already talkin' sweet nothin's?" Neil slurred, gripping his wife's shoulder for support. Summer did not look pleased with that, but she leaned on her hands when she saw the blush creep onto Arya's cheeks.

"Mr. and Mrs. Brown want to get a room?" she teased back.

"We're alright," Arthur drawled.

Loyd and Jules, Clementine's and Anna-Rose's respective husbands, brought a round of whiskey shots to the table. The drink seared down Arya's throat, but served to settle her nerves. Her face went from tight and red, to slack and careless in a matter of seconds. She shed her skin of shy, fancy girl, and it felt good.

They played cards around the table like kids, giggling and goofing off. Arya had another shot of whiskey when Clyde, Arabetha's beau, bet against her.

The familiarity of the saloon at night filled her up. Like last time, when she was here with Lenny and Arthur, the piano set off with a loud note and cheers erupted all around. Dancers began to fill the floor for jaunts and line-dancing, and soon enough, Arya was having another shot and joining Clementine, Arabetha, and Clyde onto the dance floor.

Arya's dress made it impossible to dance without lifting it up. Despite the inconvenience, the young brunette followed along to every step and move, the piano making her soar up and up and up. Joy filled her chest like air – light and sweet – and she was laughing, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

She wanted to dance with Arthur, but she was breathless, and when she reached him, sitting with the other men, she was a blabbering mess.

"Casey!" she gasped, and he watched her with a curious frown.

"Look who's fallen into the drink now."

"Come… d-dance… with m-me… please?" she breathed, laughing as she bravely grasped his wrist and pulled him up. He stumbled along with her, laughing, saying some snarky remark about wives to the other men.

Arya had totally and utterly forgotten about the mission. For tonight, for now, she wanted to enjoy herself.

Arthur was not a bad dancer, as she had thought. He danced along to the steps Clyde and Sam (the only celibate man in the investors) showed him. He kicked back a shot of whiskey and showed them all how "real dances went."

Arya swung along with him, attached to his hands like glue to paper, her hair caught in the whirlwind of their dance. She laughed, screamed, shrieked when the crowd urged them to go on. Drank some whiskey when the boys and Clementine brought some over. Danced and jumped and twirled in circles with Arthur.

And then she found herself crushed against his chest, somehow. The saloon around her began to take shape from the mess of sounds and blurry sights that it had been just seconds ago. Her cheek pressed against the rhythmic thumping of his heart, his warm arms clasped tenderly around her shoulders. Her own hands resting against the strong curve of his back. He was warm and solid, and she had never felt so safe before.

They were swinging from side to side, the piano a slow whine, a sad and genuine sound. Arthur's chin rested on the top of her hair, and he hummed along with the music. The sound echoed in her ears. She smiled, closed her eyes, and inhaled the smell of him, now so familiar. Pine and wood smoke and rain. He smelled like nature.

The piano was a slow lament. Arya could hear other couples dancing around them, but to her, the world was just her and Arthur. She was content and happy, and she would have stayed there, tucked in his arms, forever.

But Loyd, being the goofy and careless kid, swooped up next to them, Clementine in his hands. He tapped Arthur on the shoulder, who gave him a slight hum to acknowledge his presence. Loyd chuckled and said, "I give you ten dollars if ya kiss her right here."

Arya, despite being smooth and slack from the alcohol, tensed slightly.

If they refused, would their cover be blown? None of them wanted to take that risk, not when they stood on precarious ground with them.

Arthur laughed it off like it was a big joke, while Arya looked up at him with round, doe eyes. She saw the mask he wore when his blue eyes met hers, and for an instant, the façade fell, and he was searching her gaze. Her mouth fell ajar, tingles erupting under her skin like small explosions. Fingers gripped the fabric of his blouse, pulling him closer.

How long she'd secretly wanted this.

But Arthur would not give her what she wanted.

The kiss was quick. All she felt was the pressure of his full mouth on hers, the scratch of his beard, the warmth of his face. He kissed her close-mouthed, pressing hard onto her, his hands buried deep in her mane of caramel locks.

And then he was gone. He brought with him the warmth and the tingles and the possibility of feeling his tongue scrape the inside of her mouth.

She groaned audibly. Dizzy despite the lack of dedication from the kiss, the girl looked up to the betting couple and smiled. "Good enough for you, Loyd?"

He laughed, throwing his head back. "I ain't never seen a lovin' man kiss his wife like that," he joked. "He either doesn't love you to kiss you with such disdain, or he respects you way too much. Either way, Casey, my friend, she deserves a better kiss than that." He clapped Arthur on the shoulder and danced away with his wife, the both of them caught in a drunken fit of laughter.

Arya swallowed hard. Did Arthur not like her the way she did? Why had he kissed her so coldly?

Thoughts tumbled in her mind like building blocks as Arthur slowly pressed her cheek back onto his chest, knotting his fingers in her hair. His mouth came next to her ear. "You alright?" he asked. She sighed into him, the sensation of him so close making her warm inside.

"Fine," she mumbled.

She sought out the good in the situation. Maybe because she was drunk. Maybe because she was trying her best to assuage the feeling of dread climbing up her spine.

Arthur had finally kissed her. Yes, he was in the role of Casey Brown, a man he portrayed as being goofy and almost sweet, but _he had pressed his mouth to hers_. He now held her against him as if she was the most fragile thing in the world. He swayed their bodies delicately, humming along to the laments of the piano. He cradled her cheek in his hand and said to her they should leave, not to seem desperate for the attention of the investors.

When she nodded sleepily, he chuckled and laced his fingers with hers.

The crowd of their new friends were sad yet all too happy to see them go. Summer gave Arya a suggestive waggle of her arched brows, saying something about babies and how they're made. Arya laughed but ignored the totality of the jokes being spread as they walked through the swinging doors, hand in hand.

As soon as the cool air hit her humid flesh, Arthur stayed at arm's length. He still held her hand, but harshly and coldly. He walked with determination across the muddy street, the sound of crickets roaring in the girl's ears. They tumbled onto the porch, through the door, up the stairs, and into their room. Arthur pocketed the key, and as soon as the girl was safely inside, he carefully unlaced his fingers from hers.

Her hand felt heavy and cold without the impressive immensity of his.

"We made good progress today," he coughed, walking across the room to open the window. He stood there, letting the night outline his sharp and muscular features, the cool night air breezing onto his face.

"Sure," the girl answered bitterly. She saw him visibly wince.

"I'm sorry about the kiss, Arya," he mumbled, bowing his head. "We should've talked about… physical contact before comin' here. I won't do it again, I promise."

That promise shattered her heart more than she dared to admit.

Swallowing hard she said, "If that's what's better."

He turned to her, head cocked, brows pulled together. The night had rendered him rugged; hair a sweet, dusty brown mess, his eyes a star-filled pool of lapis-lazuli. "What?"

"I mean," she stammered. "It served the whole husband-and-wife purpose, right?"

He paused for too long to make what he said next the truth about what he felt. "Exactly. A masquerade."

A hot, searing feeling soared in her chest, and it took everything in her not to walk up there and punch him across the jaw. Maybe it was the alcohol making her react in such raw and emotive ways, but she hated feeling like she did just then; standing there with flushed cheeks, hair a mess because _he_ passed his fingers all through them, but with a hole the size of the moon in her heart.

"I hope you don't hold the kiss against me," he muttered, lowering his gaze.

It was her turn to lie and hurt him, she hoped. "I don't," she muttered, heading for the dressing screen. "It meant nothing anyway."

She ended the conversation by stretching out the dressing screen loudly, holding back tears behind the opaque sheets. She'd worn her mask so well, but the drink always made her emotive side sneak up on her. How could she have said such harsh things that she didn't even mean, all the while sporting the look of a bored housewife?

She didn't dare ponder on the thought as she unlaced herself, for fear of having red eyes by the time she came out from behind the screen. She tugged and pulled at the laces until the dress was loose enough that she could wiggle through.

 _Who needs a man anyway_ , she thought bitterly, clenching her teeth so hard it hurt. She adorned her white shift and slipped into her trousers. When she pushed the dressing screen back behind the dresser, she found Arthur at his spot on the ground before the window, a bundle of clothes as his pillow. She groaned internally at his stubbornness but stepped over him and marched to the bed. She threw herself under the covers, the bed screeching horribly as she did, and blew out the candle on the night table.

That night, they went to bed without a saying goodnight but wishing that they had. Wishing that they had done much more, said much more. As the girl battled sleep, she winced at how badly the ache for Arthur opened up in her chest. It roared and called for him, but she stubbornly fisted the sheets and called out to sleep instead.

* * *

 **REFERENCE GUIDE**

\- **Neil and Summer Crawford**

 **\- Clyde and Arabetha Thompson**

 **\- Loyd and Clementine Sweeney**

 **\- Jules and Anna-Rose Bailey**

 **-** **Sam Mulroney (Significant other unknown)**


	14. CHAPTER THIRTEEN: REAL

**Hey y'all! I think this is what you've been waiting for?**

 **RESPONSES TO REVIEWS:**

 **Almj31 : Slow progress? Have a look at this!**

 **SincerelyyYourss: 1800 husbands were all dickheads. Except Arthur, obvi.**

 **Spikely: TENSION?! Did someone say tension? Thank you so much!**

 **Aurora: Thank you so much! It's so heartwarming to have people actually like my story!**

 **bennettnasagirl: more angst for you girl! Arthur would definitely get on one knee and be so traditional, you'd lose your mind. Enjoy!**

 **Lovebird: OMG, thank you! Thank you a million times, you! Love!**

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: REAL

 _You're my sunshine in the darkest days_  
 _My better half, my saving grace_  
 _You make me who I wanna be_  
 _You make it easy_

 _Day three_

It was a slight tug that pulled Arya from sleep. She twisted in the sheets, groaning. The tug was a like a reminder that something was missing. The empty bed responded to her, creaking under her weight. She stuffed her face into the pillow, and when silence answered her ears, she rose her head off the bed.

Surely, the room was silent. Arthur's perch by the window was empty. An ache opened up in Arya's chest as she rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

Was he still mad with her? Had a rift been driven between the two over one little kiss?

Sunlight streamed through the window, and Arya was now restless to get out of bed. She dreaded the moment she'd have to slip into another corset and tight dress, so she called for the errand boy and asked him to bring her a cup of coffee. She waited by the window, letting the cool morning air wash over her face through the slight opening she'd made. The day was beautiful, and despite the early hour, many people roamed the streets.

The errand boy brought her a mug of coffee. "Have you seen my husband?" she asked before he could scurry away. The boy – not much older than ten with dark blond hair – was nervous in front of her. He seemed distracted by the fact that she was only in her shift.

"He left early this mornin', madam," the boy stuttered.

"Where to?"

The boy shrugged. "I didn't follow him."

Arya smiled. "Thank you for the coffee."

She closed the door and headed back to her perch on the window. She drank her cup, savoring the sweet warmth as it slid down to her stomach.

She almost choked on her drink when she saw Arthur stepping out of the saloon doors, making his merry way across the street to the hotel. Her heart sprang in her chest. As she waited for him, she tried to settle her breathing and pretend that all was calm in her head.

He walked in slowly and quietly, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. When he saw that she was awake, he gave her a sly smile and mumbled, "Mornin'."

"Hi."

By the dry tone of her voice, she could see that he understood. She was still walking on eggshells with him.

He sighed, "I didn't think you'd be awake at this time."

She remembered the wrongness of waking up to an empty room, an empty bed. She clenched her teeth, remembering also that he might not feel the same way towards her. "Where did you go?" she asked. Her voice came out surprisingly normal.

Arthur seemed to untense, his smile easy, his blue eyes bright in the morning sunlight drifting in through the window. "It would seem our boys are takin' the day off," he said, exposing white teeth behind his grin. "They had a rough night, and Sam, the only one awake at the saloon, told me Neil has been retching his guts up all mornin'."

"How lovely," Arya sighed. After a beat, she asked, "So what do we do now?"

Arthur smiled, and behind that goofy grin was a wickedness she'd never seen before. Curiosity bloomed inside her, at the shy redness of his cheeks and the weird fidgeting from one foot to the other. Was he… nervous?

"Let's go to Saint Denis," he blurted. "You and me."

Arya's eyes went round as she put her cup down on the table and stood. "I thought you hated the city," she said, a raised brow curved perfectly over her eye.

"We can't go anywhere in these little towns because travelers might recognize us if they come up here," he answered. "And Saint Denis is so vast. There's no chance of someone recognizin' us."

Arya heard the little hitch in his voice. Somehow, it planted a seed of doubt in her mind about how he felt, and made heat spread viciously in her chest. Anticipation crawled up her spine. "What are we going to do in Saint Denis?" she asked, each word and syllable accentuated by the curve of her mouth. She saw his eyes dart to her lips for a half second.

"Let's just go and…" he said, spreading his arms, "explore. And eat."

Arya's stomach growled in response, and she bit back a laugh. Arthur grinned wolfishly at her. "Alright, cowboy," she drawled. "Let's go."

* * *

Saint Denis was a crawling mess. Arthur seemed to hate industrialization as he spewed heinous words towards factories they passed along the way.

The pair had dressed in their normal attire; pants and matching black union shirts. They'd slipped out of the hotel in a hurry, jumped into the wagon, and raced down to the big city. Half way there, Arthur pulled out his beloved hat and placed it where it belonged. Arya found comfort in her jeans and suspenders pressed over her breasts, in the lightweight feeling of a union shirt instead of a corset. She'd drawn her hair back into a simple braid and felt more at ease than she'd had in the past two days.

With Arthur at her side commandeering the wagon, she felt at peace. It was almost lunch time when they rolled onto the first muddy streets of Saint Denis, the small houses facing the sun greeting them with somber silence. The sounds and smells of the city reached them; shouting and feces. She had not missed that at all.

They had talked about everything standing on neutral ground, and Arya was pleased with that. She didn't think she'd be able to talk about _it_ in the light of day and sober. She just wanted to forget. She'd been drunk, the music and the people around had created some sort of bubble, which inside, anything was permitted.

"We should eat," Arthur said as he steered the wagon towards a building. The horse whinnied as Arthur hitched it.

He'd brought her to a place called Grillings, which was a three-story building facing the bright midday sun. Around them, merchants of every kind called out, the sound of machinery a persistent echo. They weren't even in the heart of the big city and already, it lay heavy on their shoulders.

Arthur used a cautious hand to guide Arya inside. Air that smelled of meat and booze greeted them. Grillings was packed with men and women, laughing and eating and clinking glasses. Arya was mesmerized by the amount of people, by the bright colors of the walls, and the utter busyness of the place.

"Too crowded?" Arthur asked, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

A shiver sprang down her spine. She looked up at him and gave a tight smile. "I've seen worse."

"In Delaware?" he quipped, gesturing to an empty table. "They got big cities like this in Delaware?"

Arya's face reddened as she took a seat across from him, watching him spread his hands on the broken wood. She studied his fingers, the callouses and the dirty nails. The breath rasped in her lungs, and suddenly, she was imagining those hands on her, and fire erupted under her skin.

"Arya?"

Her eyes snapped up, meeting the cerulean blue of Arthur's, brows knit and concerned look on his face.

"Yeah," she breathed. "Delaware has cities too."

He looked her over, studying her, watching her smile timidly. "We should get some food in you," he concluded, gesturing for the waitress. He ordered two plates of meat and the finest bourbon, and then settled back across from her. The sunlight streaming in through the high windows made his skin appear golden.

God, he was a handsome man.

"Quit starin' at me, woman," he groaned, ducking under his hat, avoiding her eyes.

At first, Arya felt a pang of embarrassment. She _had_ been staring, and he caught her. However, seeing him hiding under the rim of his hat, made a sly smirk tug at her lips.

"Are you insecure, Mr. Morgan?" she teased.

He grazed his eyes up to her slowly. "Well," he sighed, "I am an ugly feller. Have you even seen me?"

Arya's perplexed look must have been very excessive because Arthur threw his hands up and gestured to himself, as if to emphasize what he'd said.

The young woman sighed. "Don't talk about yourself like that."

"It's the truth," he answered, ducking back under his hat to examine the room around him. Across the floor, a rowdy group of men and women shouted and laughed and clinked their drinks.

Their plates of meat arrived, and they dug in. Arya's stomach was satisfied in an instant. The meat was tender and juicy, and the bourbon helped bring it all down. Even Arthur kept to himself as he cleaned off his plate and chugged the rest of his drink.

After Arthur gallantly paid off the food and drinks, he directed Arya to the docks. They lined the glistening river, which was bright and dark all at once, catching and reflecting the light. The calls of seagulls and fishermen alike echoed off the waves, the smell of algae and fish and sweat clinging to her nostrils. Far ahead, on the straight blue line of the horizon, birds were painted like quick strokes of wandering brushes against the pastel colors of the sky.

They spent most of the afternoon exchanging polite conversation with the citizens of Saint Denis. A ways off the docks, a woman with ebony skin and a glowing golden gown was rushing down the boardwalk. Her hair was in a mess, black strands wickedly sticking up on her head, chocolate eyes spread wide in agony.

"Mon sac!" she yelled.

Arya frowned, breaking away from Arthur to jog towards the woman.

"Non, mon sac!" She was looking around wildly, clutching her empty hands to her stomach.

"Madame!" Arya called out. Arthur's attention turned to the women from where he'd been conversing about fishing with a raggedy-looking man.

"Mon sac, mademoiselle!" the woman cried, grasping Arya by the shoulders. The brunette came face-to-face with agonizing eyes and a twisted mouth. "Quel qu'un a volé mon sac!"

Arya's breath hitched as she held the woman by the elbows. "Où est-il allé?"

The woman was shaking when Arthur came to their side, extending a warm and comforting hand to her. Arya and him exchanged a look, the man holding both amusement and curiosity in his eyes.

"What is it?" he asked lowly.

"Je ne sais pas!" the woman exclaimed. Arthur gave Arya another weird look. "Il est partie par là!"

Arya nodded and swallowed hard, looking to where the woman had pointed; a series of alleyways and stairs leading to the shady backways of Saint Denis.

She turned to Arthur. "This woman got her bag stolen," she explained. "She said the thief went into those alleyways. You mind going to take a look while I stay with her?"

Arthur sighed deeply, staring between the panicking woman and the darkening alleyways. With the shortening daylight, he knew he'd have a hard time finding a thief in the somber alleys.

"What does her bag look like?" he asked, tucking his thumbs into the loops of his belt.

"Votre sac ressemble à quoi?" Arya asked the woman, who was breathing so hard that her chest heaved heavily. "De quel couleur est-il?"

The woman swallowed, desperate and wild eyes zigzagging between the alleyways, Arthur, and Arya. "Il est de couleur argent," she answered breathlessly. "Il y a de petit diamands sur la broderie."

Arya turned quickly to Arthur. "It's silver with diamonds on the embroidery."

Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Fine," he sighed. "I'll go take a look."

"Oh!" the woman gasped, fawning over Arthur, laying open palms onto his chest. Arya's hands clenched involuntarily. "Merci, oh Dieu merci à vous!"

Arthur scurried off across the cobblestone street, the clang of his holster belt echoing in Arya's ears. She watched him go, powerful back etched under the thin fabric of his union shirt. The sway of his shoulders as he walked rapidly to the alleys edge, and the crisp crystal color of his eyes as he took a glance back at her.

Arya bit her nails, leaning on the edge of the railing, until he came back. Her heart was a stuttering mess, the sky was a deep bruise purple, and the panicking woman beside her was a breathless mess by the time Arthur came back. He strode out of the shadows like he was walking into the best day of his life; a shit-eating grin on his lips and glistening eyes. Darkness pooled all around him, onto his shirt and onto his face, but he glowed like candle light as he reached the two women by the docks.

"Here," he said, handing a shiny, glittering bag to the woman. "Ain't nothin' left inside, but this is it, right?"

"Oui, oh!" the woman grabbed the bag and jumped into Arthur's arms, wrapping her own around his neck. "Merci, merci, merci!" she chanted continuously, breathless, tears glistening on her cheeks.

Awkwardly, Arthur tapped her back and settled her onto her feet, giving the tightest smiles in the history of tight smiles. He gave Arya a low look from beneath his hat. "How do you say 'have a good day' in… French?"

Arya's smile was kind and sweet, but inside, jealousy pressed hot hands against the ridges of her ribs. "Just say 'bonne journée'," she answered.

Arthur repeated what she'd said, albeit with the thickest accent. "Shouldn't we accompany her home or somethin'?" he asked Arya.

The girl shrugged, then turning to the woman, she asked, "Avez-vous quel qu'un qui vous attend?"

The woman nodded dramatically, pointing to the tavern doors on the corner of the street. "Mon mari m'attend," she answered.

Arya nodded, jutting her chin to the tavern. "Her husband's in there," she told Arthur. "I think she'll be alright."

Arms crossed over their chests, the pair watched the dark-haired woman scurry off towards the tavern, clutching her bag to her chest like a lifeboat. Darkness had spread shadows along the cobblestones, and soon, she'd merged into the languid darkness, only to reappear as a silhouette in the lighting of the open tavern door.

"How do you know French?" Arthur asked.

Arya realized all at once that they were utterly alone. With the day coming to an end, all the fishermen and merchants had either gone home or to a bar, the docks empty. She could hear the rocking of the boats against the soft lull of the waves, the creaking and groaning of wood. Chains rattled in the distance, a chilling wind picking up along the shore.

"My mother taught me," she answered tightly, memories of the past, of the future, and the present, playing like a never-ending cycle in her mind. Oh, how things could have been.

Arthur frowned, turning to face her. He calmly took his hat off, staring down at her from his impressive height. "Your mother was French?"

Arya's tight smile turned into a scoff. "Of course not," she chuckled, swaying awkwardly. "She was from… Canada."

Arthur's confusion wrote itself clearly on his face. " _Canada_?"

"Yes, like, the country."

"You never told you was _Canadian_ ," he grumbled, emphasizing the word as if it was the worst thing to ever be.

"That's because I-I'm not," she stuttered, avoiding his gaze. "I was born here."

There was a long, silent moment where Arya stared at the rusty and moldy floorboards of the docks, listening to the rocking of the boats and the whooshing of the waves. Then a delicate hand found home under her chin, calloused fingers such a contrast against the softness of her flesh. Fire spread across her stomach like crawling ants, and ironically, goosebumps erupted on her skin.

"Why do you keep such secrets?" he rasped, bringing her swan eyes to meet the blue of his eyes, now almost ocean black in the darkness.

Her lower lip trembled. He was still so far away. She wanted him closer. "I don't…" she trailed off, too preoccupied by the curve of his mouth and the tender way he looked down at her. "I don't want to hurt anybody."

His eyes briefly fell to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. Then he smiled sweetly. "You can't hurt me," he whispered. He took a small step closer and her world spun, tipping, the fire inside her raging to such an extent, she thought she'd explode.

"But the things that – that I've done," she murmured, shaking her head slowly, but still unable to take her eyes off of his.

He huffed, full mouth pulling into a slow grin. Again, a step forward until her blood was roaring in her ears, and she couldn't even hear her own breathing. She could feel his breath on her face as he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers.

"I've done worse, Arya." The way he said her name sent electricity zapping through her nerves. Her breath hitched and all doubts left her mind. Her heart beat was erratic and all she wished, as her fingers flexed, was to pass them through the soft strands of his hair. "This is how it should have been," he whispered, but before she could ask what he meant, he pressed his mouth to hers.

It was nothing like yesterday; surrounded by drunk people, screaming and shouting. The smell of sweat and the oozing of her own state of drunkenness swaying through her mind. The feeling of a forced, crammed moment.

It was just them; him and his hands on her waist, holding her close, his hat forgotten on the rotting floorboards. His smell and the feel of his strong arms around her. The scrape of his beard on her chin, the soft wetness of his mouth opening onto hers. He held her so close that she didn't know where she began and where she ended. All she knew was the feeling of him, her fingers somehow tangled in the soft mess of his hair. Under her biceps, the feel of his shoulders. On her breasts, the press of his solid chest. All around her, his warmth. It was just him and him and _him_.

 _Finally_ , she thought, impressed that she could even have a coherent thought as he slid his tongue along her lower lip. She melted against him, a soft moan swallowed by his lips as he deepened the kiss. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers clutching to her union shirt as he pulled her flush against his chest.

He tasted of bourbon and _him_ , and Arya wanted all of him.

His hands left her waist and slid up her arms, almost not touching her, which made her even more crazy. He pressed the flat of his palms against her cheeks and held her, delving onto her mouth expertly. Her own hands gripped his waist, and suddenly, the kiss was something more. More aggressive, faster, as if they didn't have all the time in the world. As if something would rip them apart.

Teeth and tongues, the gnashing of the kiss became feral as delicate fingers turned into claws. A groan caught in his throat, his fingers digging into the caramel mane of the young woman. He stepped forward, too close, and she took a step back, bringing him with her. Breathing became ragged and almost impossible as they tried to keep up with each other, kiss after kiss after kiss. His tongue was warm and wet and so delicious against the inside of her lower lip.

She needed to breathe. As much as she would cling to his mouth for the rest of eternity, her lungs burned as she pressed her palms against his neck and pulled back slightly.

Breathless, he asked, "Did I overstep?"

She smiled. Oh, the ever gallant man. "No," she breathed. "No not at all." She reached up on her toes to give his mouth a hard kiss, reveling in his smell, in the scrape of his beard against her chin, in the way he immediately clung to her. "I just need to breathe," she said as she pulled back.

He laughed lowly, something between a chuckle and a gasp as he, too, searched for air. She settled her forehead against the warmth of his neck, his chin on the top of her head. The solidity of his arms around her shoulders was something like an anchor, reminding her that _this_ was real. _He_ was real. The feel his back against the delicateness of her palms just made the moment sturdier.

"This is how it should have been," he said, the rumble of his voice against her ear like music. She frowned, remembering she had wanted to ask him what he meant. His voice dropped down to a whisper. "This is how I should have kissed you the first time."

"Arthur…" she whined lowly. But she smiled against his skin, the smell of him so real that it troubled her. He was real. _He was real_.

"This is how you deserve to be kissed," he muttered. "Every time."

She savored the moment, pressed up against him, only the stars to bring them company. His steady breathing rocked her, and she stood there, listening.

"We should get back," he said after a while. She didn't know how long she stood there, safely tucked in his arms. She didn't care. She'd stay there forever. "It's getting late."

The ride back was a daze; a silent daze. She was content of sitting beside him, watching the night swirl over and around her, as if she was in a gigantic glittering globe. The wind was soft and chilly, but her flesh still radiated so much heat that it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered but him.

In their room – _their_ room – the darkness enveloped them. Arya confidently strode behind the dressing screen and changed, listening to Arthur shuffling around. He lit a candle with a match he struck under his boot. He took them off. He sighed. Arya smiled as she passed her shift over her head, leaving her trousers folded behind.

When she emerged, she almost laughed at Arthur perched by the window, leaning against it, hands clutching the wood. Nervously – and she never got nervous – she pressed a loose strand behind her ear and headed to the bed.

Once she was sat, she looked up at him. "You – uh – don't have to sleep on the floor you know," she rasped, gaging his every move, watching him like a hawk.

It reminded him of the first night they met.

"I don't want to be… invasive," he sighed, gesturing to her with a strong hand.

"Arthur, I don't…" she trailed off, folding herself under the covers. "I don't want to be alone."

There was a long beat. Then he took of his hat, clipped off his suspenders, and folded them on the window seat. The clang of metal made Arya's head buzz. She crawled to the edge, until the wall was at her back, and she faced him as he walked to the bed. His lips were in a tight line as he sat, extinguishing the light in one harsh blow.

The bed dipped as he slowly lowered himself, eyes staring straight at the ceiling. When Arya's eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out his outline by the moonlight washing through the window. She examined his face from his profile; his forehead, his nose, his full mouth. His neck and his chest. Only when she got to his hands that she saw the slight trembling of his fingers.

The bed was warm. Not cold. Not empty. Something like fullness spread across her as she slowly inched her hand towards his and enlaced her fingers with his. They were warm and strong and calloused. Pulling it towards her, she pressed her lips against his knuckles, then pressed his hand against her heart.

"Good night," she murmured, her voice like a breathy noise in her throat.

His fingers clenched in response, comfortably laced with hers, pressed against the steady beating of her heart.

* * *

 **Isn't it romantic? Thoughts?**

 **REFERENCE GUIDE (even though you don't need it for this chapter):**

 **\- Neil and Summer Crawford**

 **\- Clyde and Arabetha Thompson**

 **\- Loyd and Clementine Sweeney**

 **\- Jules and Anna-Rose Bailey**

 **\- Sam Mulroney (Significant other unknown)**


	15. CHAPTER FOURTEEN:TENDERNESS OF OUTLAWS

**YALL THIS CHAPTER IS SO LONG AAHAHAH. I must apologize for taking so long to publish this chapter, but I worked so much and was so exhausted. I hope you forgive me and enjoy this one! Word count is over 7K!**

 **RESPONSES TO REVIEWS:**

 **SincerlyyYourss: Yes, Arya is bilingual and you will know why when she fully comes out to Arthur about her past. I am so happy that you want to know more about her! Thank you so much! You are a real faithful reader and I truly appreciate it.**

 **Spikely: Hey you, tension loving person! Have at it, this chapter might be for you ;)**

 **PrimaBelladonna: I'm so happy you love the story! but please, concentrate on work before you read my story ;) don't want you getting fired over Arthur and Arya ahahha! Thank you!**

 **Bennettnasagirl: thank you! sweet and lovable tension only for these love birds!**

 **Almj31: they deserved a real kiss like that, no, right? I'm happy you loved their kiss! I wasn't sure if it was too romantic for Arthur, but let's be honest, Arthur is probably the most romantic and desperately touch-craving man out there, so...**

* * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE TENDERNESS OF OUTLAWS

 _Everybody's talking about heaven like they just can't wait to go_  
 _Saying how it's gonna be so good, so beautiful_  
 _Lying next to you, in this bed with you, I ain't convinced_  
 _'Cause, I don't know how, I don't know how heaven, heaven_  
 _Could be better than this_

 _Day four_

Arya was still asleep when Arthur woke up. The first thing he felt was the weird sensation that it had all been a dream; the day in Saint Denis, the kiss, sleeping with his fingers intertwined with hers. It invaded him, this feeling, this dread, and when he found the softness of her hand placed lightly on his chest, the feeling evaded him like steam from a pot.

She lay on her side, still facing him, curled up against the wall with her knees to her chest. Her hand, the one that had held his throughout the night, was now pressed against his sternum, curled into a loose ball. It rose with every breath Arthur took, and he marveled at how normal this whole thing was; waking up next to a woman, touching each other, having spent the night together.

The space between them was eternal. It took everything in Arthur not to breach the distance and wrap her up in his arms. He knew how fragile their relationship was – or whatever they called it – and he was not about to rip a rift between them because he was in a hurry. She was steel and fire, and he was a soft substance under a hardened shell.

For a second, a split second he wished never happened, he remembered waking up next to Eliza. She was always spread across him as if he anchored her to Earth, and without him, she'd float away. She was taller than Arya, and lanky, as if her limbs had grown with the blueprints of tree branches as guides. Eliza was tall and sharp, where Arya was short and soft and round. He had learned to love Eliza, in some way, maybe because she had given him a boy.

With Arya, it felt like he was falling. And he didn't want it to stop.

As much as Arthur wanted to stay where he was, under the blanket of their shared warmth, they had to get on with their mission. He didn't want to wake her; she looked so peaceful as she slept, so he slowly got to his feet. Joints and tendons tense and taunt, he groaned to his feet.

 _Old man_ , he thought, taking a glance at the young woman curled in the bed. Her skin was a livid golden shade, her lips parted as she breathed slowly and rhythmically. Her mass of caramel hair tousled along the feathered pillow made him want to reach out and touch them. He remembered just how soft and thick they were as he'd combed his fingers through them, kissing her so. He remembered the warmth of the back of her neck, the curve of her pressed against his chest. Her mouth; wet and inviting.

He smiled when he remembered she'd had to reach onto her toes to kiss him back.

Arthur sat by the window and watched the streets come to life. The day was cloudy and grey, rain heavy and oncoming on the horizon. The builders had ceased their work in fear of rain, and the newspaper boy stood under an umbrella by the side of the sheriff's office.

There was movement in the bed, the horrible screeching announcing Arya's wakefulness.

"Hey," she croaked, sitting up, pressing a hand through her mess of hair.

Arthur gave her a slow smile. "Mornin'."

She looked at him with those black eyes. She was so goddamn beautiful.

"You think they're awake?" she asked.

Arthur shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "Pretty sure they've gotta be up by now."

Arya nodded and went to her feet, stretching out like a cat in front of him. Her face was a stoic mask, eyes bored and glassy, as if she hadn't made Arthur feel on fire last night.

All night long, laying beside her like a piece of cold steel, it had taken _everything_ in him not to act on the fire building in his groin. In and out of sleep, restless, he resisted the urge to roll her over, to bite her and press his fingers under her clothes. His dreams were plagued with her; smell, touch, voice, and no matter how many times he ground his teeth, the urge inside him did not subside.

"We should go for breakfast and see if they're there," Arya proposed as she disappeared behind the dressing screen. The translucent sheets made it possible for Arthur to see her shadow dance behind, and he could only imagine what she looked like.

As she dressed, Arthur adorned his business man attire; white blouse buttoned tight below his Adam's apple, pressed dress pants with suspenders across his chest, and a thin vest to complete the look. As always, _always_ , he tucked a knife in the inside pocket of his black vest. He felt safer knowing he had a weapon close. He felt safer knowing he could keep Arya safe, even though she could take care of herself.

He wasn't surprised when he saw her tuck a blade between the folds of her dress as she came out from the dressing screen.

She wore a dark green dress, the corset high on her chest so her breasts were almost unnoticeable. Almost. Coy beads of gold were embroidered along the hem of the corset, falling down like raindrops across her chest. Caramel locks had been brushed and tied into a tight French braid along the curve of her skull and down her back.

They stared at each other for a second, pretending not to notice the other staring, but they both knew they were gawking.

"Ready?" she breathed, forcing a smile.

Arthur held out his hand. "If you will."

She chuckled and shook her head, yet nonetheless laced her hand with his. The familiarity of her small, calloused fingers gripping his made his heart weaken. But he breathed better with her close. Descending down the stairs, seeing men loitering about inside the lobby, he felt better having her at his side.

No one had arrived for breakfast at the saloon yet, so they sat at a table near the empty piano and ordered eggs, toasts, potatoes, and coffee.

It didn't take long for them all to arrive. Slowly, they leaked in like leeches to blood; first, the early drinkers. Then the people who actually worked in the saloon. Lastly, the normal people who just wanted to eat out.

Clementine came in with Summer on her hand, followed closely by their respective husbands. Summer struggled to sit, wincing and groaning as she came near Arya.

"Emily, my dear," she cooed. From up close, Arya could see sweat on the young woman's brow. She looked up to Neil, but the man was too busy conversing with Arthur and Loyd to even care that his wife seemed to be suffering.

"Are you alright, Summer?" Arya whispered lowly. Clementine came to sit on Arya's left, leaving the men to their half of the table.

All the magic that had happened with Arthur the night before seemed to whisk right out of Arya's mind.

"She's been feelin' the baby kickin' all night," Clementine answered, signaling for the bartender to bring them all some food. "Here, darlin', have some coffee."

"I don't think that's a good idea for a pregnant woman," Arya said, brushing off the cup Clementine was offering. When the two women gave Arya a glare, she said, "Coffee is very acidic. Leads the way to inflammation in the body. I wouldn't give coffee to a heavily pregnant woman."

Summer cocked her head, one hand massaging the left side of her bulging stomach. Then she gave Clementine a raised eyebrow, as if to tell her to be more careful next time. "Maybe all this coffee is what's got her kickin'," Summer growled to her friend, then ordered a cup of water.

"Her?" Arya asked.

Clementine smarted. "Summer thinks she goin' to have a baby girl."

"By the way the stomach is, y'know," Summer sighed, gesturing to her tummy.

Arya chuckled. "Nothing proves that the shape of the belly determines if it's a boy or a girl," she said. "What if you have a boy, huh?"

Summer smirked. "I like your spunk, Mrs. Brown," she answered. "And if I have a boy, well, that'll make my husband happy, for once."

The three young women laughed and enjoyed their breakfast. Clementine asked Arya how she knew about pregnancy, and the latter informed them about her days spent with her mother, learning medicine. That made the two wives seem overly interested, and Arya had to remind herself that not all women had the chance to learn such delicacies.

"Where's Arabetha and Anna-Rose?" Arya asked, after seeing their husbands join the rest.

"Those two are always up to no good," Summer groaned, flinching, rubbing her left side. "We are the ones you really wants to be spendin' time with."

Oh, Arya had no doubt.

She gave Arthur a glance, one that said, "Let's get this done." The man, sparkling in the sun streaming from the windows, seemed to understand as if Arya had screamed it atop her lungs.

"Gentlemen," he crooned, getting to his feet with a sultry smile. Arya had to subside the want growing in her belly. "Let's let the ladies have at it, right? How about some poker?"

Arthur, although he always claimed to lack in the people-pleasing department, seemed to be doing just fine as he led the five men to a nearby playing table. He seemed almost at his peace, laughing and joking as if he wasn't about to rob them blind in about four days.

"The day is cool," Arya said, seeing her own opportunity. "We should sit by the hotel and let Summer enjoy the breeze?"

Summer seemed to be touched by Arya's interest in her well-being. More like her ego was flattered, but Arya was playing the part. Clementine, however, seemed to only want to get back into Summer's good graces, and so she seemed unfazed by anything Arya asked or said.

The three women got to their feet, and Arya was about to let Clementine help Summer, but the latter brushed her off and waddled out on her own.

"I ain't disabled last I heard," she grumbled as they walked passed the swinging doors.

Arya gave one last glance at her faux husband before they left, watching him with a wide grin as he set up the cards before him.

"He's gonna be just fine, Emily," Summer sighed, seeing the almost ridden look on the brunette's face. Summer's own glossy black hair caught the sun through the clouds and seemed to be gleaming.

"I know," Arya breathed.

They made it quite painfully across the small expanse of muddy street to the hotel, where they sat Summer in the middle and each took a side. The latter was breathless, sweat dotting her forehead and upper lip as if it was midsummer.

"Where did y'all run to yesterday, anyway?" Clementine asked.

Arya, knowing she had a part to play, smiled shyly and averted her gaze. "Casey wanted to take me to Saint Denis," she said in what she hoped was a love-struck tone. "Since none of you were up to keep me company, he brought me to eat and watch the water."

Summer sighed, brow raised. "You enjoy the honeymoon phase while it lasts, my girl," she said. "None of that happens when you is about to give life to his child."

For a split second, Arya imagined herself swollen with Arthur's child.

"Do none of your husbands love you?" Arya asked in disbelief.

Both Clementine and Summer burst into laughter, leaning into each other, hands reaching for fingers. Arya saw the long-lasting friendship between both, and almost, _almost_ , felt bad for trying to break it.

"None of us married outta love, dearest Emily," Clementine hiccupped between bouts of laughter.

"We married out of opportunity," Summer added, catching the brunette's attention. "Love comes after. Or never. That doesn't matter."

"If we'd wait for love," Clementine said, "we'd be old maids by then."

Arya swallowed, bracing herself for what she'd say next. The blood roared in her ears as she gave them both a tight smile. "So if you don't love each other, why'd you follow them all the way up here?"

They were silent for an instant. Clementine stared off into the street, a look of contemplation on her soft features. Summer rubbed her belly slowly.

"It's the risks," she said.

Arya smarted. "Risks?"

Clementine was pretending not to listen.

"If I stayed at home," Summer said, "and their plan goes to _shit_ , then I'm in danger."

Arya put on her most faux expression of surprise. "Summer! Danger?" She hoped she sounded concerned and not happy.

Summer clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth and rolled her eyes. "Our husbands are workin' for this real big-shot by the name of Leviticus Cornwall. Do you know the man?"

"No." Lies.

"Well, he sent my husband and his men up here to wait on an oil delivery from the joints up north," she continued. "Our security is camped somewhere over there" – she motioned to the outskirts of town – "and when that delivery comes, we're all supposed to play the part of idiots."

Arya smoothed down her skirts, examining the way Clementine was observing from the corner of her eye. "Why would y'all play idiots?" Arya asked.

Summer chuckled. "This Leviticus man wants to use our husbands as bait." She gave the saloon a glare as if the man himself was in there. "And my husband is playin' along because of the money, even though it gotta be dirty money."

"It's a… bait operation?" Arya asked timidly.

Summer nodded quickly. "Exactly."

"But, I mean, why are you all here too?" Arya was going to play innocent as long as she could. "There's surely more risks with you here, right?"

The woman looked around, considered it, then shook her head. "It would seem fishy if it's just all men carryin' the oil back to Annesburg."

Bingo. Annesburg.

Clementine whipped her head to the two women, and Arya hoped Clementine couldn't see just how gleaming the brunette's swan eyes were. The oil was going to Annesburg, _not_ Saint Denis.

"Who are y'all bait for?" Arya ventured, looking as dumb as she could. If they thought she was just curious and concerned for their safety, they wouldn't suspect her. Not until she held a gun to their temples.

Clementine decided now was the time she was joining the conversation. "Cornwall wants to catch whatever outlaw gang is goin' to put their hands on the oil," she said. "Our husbands been screamin' loud and long about this oil trade to attract the eyes of any foul soul who wants to rob us. Leviticus is hopin' to catch a feller by the name of Van Der Linde or O'Driscoll."

Heat spread across Arya's chest and face like liquid fire, and she had to resist the urge to gape _. Oh shit_. This was a bigger trap then they'd thought. If Leviticus was fashioning some sort of elaborate scheme to get both her gang and the O'Driscolls, then there were more problems to worry about. First, they'd fallen right into it. Second, they risked running into O'Driscolls.

"Leviticus is hoping to catch those foolish men here, in Valentine?" Arya asked, but her mouth was dry, and her eyes betrayed her. She wanted Arthur.

Summer shrugged. "I think so," she answered. "Either when the oil arrives in four days or when we all on the road. Either way, our "riches and aristocracy" will surely attract thieves and outlaws that we can catch."

Clementine leaned in over Summer. "You know anyone by the name of Van Der Linde?" she asked.

"No," Arya said, shaking her head like a disbelieved housewife.

"Well, he a nasty feller," Clementine added. "All them things he done in Blackwater. He ain't no good man."

 _You don't have to tell me_ , Arya thought. She gulped out of anger, yet it passed as fear for the two women sitting across her.

"Let's not scare young Emily with our horror stories, now, Clem," Summer said, reaching over to pat Arya on the hand. "Emily don't know nobody that foul. Look at her, she's freshly married. Who knows, maybe that glow is the beginnings of pregnancy?"

 _Doubt it._

Arya smiled, glad to change to subject. If she dwelled too long, they'd surely suspect her.

"Well," Summer sighed, "I'm feelin' quite light-headed. I'm goin' to go in for a nap. Clementine, help me up?"

The mentioned girl got to her feet in a hurry.

"See you for dinner, Emily?" Clementine asked, taking Summer's hand.

"Of course," Arya answered.

Arya, not knowing what else to do without Arthur, climbed up into their room. For a minute, she was at a lost. What to do. What do women of high society even do? She would give anything to pick up a gun and go hunting, or take her knives out, or put on her trousers and sit by a fire near the campsites of town. All of a sudden, she remembered, too, how before her brother died, she used to live a life a little similar to that of high society. She had always known how to use a gun and a knife, how to fight, and how to survive, but she'd never had a life as hard as she did.

Even before he died, Arya had always had her hands full. Germanotta was not one to let idle hands be idle. Cooking and washing and cleaning and gardening and building, name it, Arya had done it all. When she wasn't at work or at home working, she was out shopping for Germanotta or gathering supplies for her work. She never had time to herself, and barely had time to take a breath before she fell asleep. No wonder Arya never had time to date.

Dating. She had a feeling that whatever was going on between Arthur and her was not dating, and something far more mature than that.

Arya decided to pick up a book Grimshaw had packed for her and sit by the window. By then, the greying clouds had given way to a clear sky. Afternoon passed in a breeze as the young brunette immersed herself into the book about aristocrats becoming cowboys. A few hours before dinner, the door to their room creaked open and in came Arthur.

He walked in accompanied with a smell of grilled food and booze. He was smiling awkwardly as his blue eyes met the girl sitting by the window. He'd unbuttoned the top of his shirt, leaving little stray hairs visible on his chest. His cheeks were pink, but he did not look drunk, not even tipsy. The way he managed not to drink in the presence of influencing men was beyond Arya's knowledge.

"I did it," he said, closing the door behind him.

Arya jumped from her perch, back as straight as a rod. "Did what?"

He gave her a raised eyebrow, his full mouth stretching into a shit eating grin. "We're in."

Arya's mouth opened, then closed, her fingers clenching and reaching, just to fall to her sides. "You invested and they bought it?" she asked, opting for verbal congratulations instead of physical.

He nodded, raking a hand through his unruly hair. "They was surprised at first at how much I be puttin' on the table," he drawled, eyes awkwardly skidding from her face to the floor and back. "But I eventually convinced them."

She smiled, teeth and all, and before she knew it, her arms were wrapped around his neck. He harrumphed, stepping back with the force of her, his own hands finding home on the small of her back.

"We did it!" she said breathily, face buried in the crook of his neck. He smelled of cigarette smoke and whiskey, but he was warm, and she was tingling all over.

"Did you make progress?" he asked, his mouth moving against her collarbone as he lift her up in his arms. The muscles bulged against her back, his barrel chest pressed flat against her breasts.

"Yes," she answered, pressing flyaway hairs behind her ears as he set her to her feet and stepped back. "The oil isn't even going to Saint Denis. It's heading to Annesburg."

"Why?" He furrowed his brows and sucked his lower lip between his teeth.

"That's what I aim to find out," she answered. "Or maybe you can try?"

He puckered his mouth, hands on hips, and said, "I'll try. They think I'm some kind of dumb hunk with a whole lotta money. If they see me askin' too many questions, they might get suspicious."

Arya nodded. "I think I can get Summer or Clementine to tell me."

"They trust you so much already?"

"Well," the girl sighed, "Clementine seems to have a personal vendetta against Dutch. She says Cornwall plans to catch whoever tries to put their hands on the oil. I'm thinking we have to play this real coy because she said anyone who tries to step in will seem suspicious to Cornwall. If they mention another man in on the deal, he might think it's a robbery."

"Well, it is."

"I know that," she groaned. "We just need to find out how Leviticus plans to catch the thieves he's sure are coming."

"If it's a trap for thieves," Arthur started, "then maybe others will come along."

"Exactly," Arya said with a quick nod. "These men have been yelling all over town about their business here. Cornwall's entire plan is to catch outlaws, and so is Neil's." Arya marveled at how easily Arthur understood, like their minds were on the same page.

Arthur stood back, hand on his hip, thumb to his mouth. He gave a low hum, as if contemplating the entire picture. "I told Neil and Loyd about personal security I could bring over," he said, blue eyes scanning up to the girl. "I could get Javier and Charles up here early, just to make sure we have a chance at gettin' out if anythin' goes south before we get to the end of the deal."

Arya sighed, readjusting her skirts. "I think that since you've put some money in on the deal," she said, "and that our entire story seems legit, we won't raise any red flags."

"Let's hope so."

He raked a hand in his hair again, sighing, his eyes awkward. He smiled shyly.

"What?" she asked, her own awkwardness making her voice soft.

"I just…" he sighed, trailing off with a hand falling against his thigh. "I'm just worried about you. I know that – uh – that you can take care of yourself, but, oh, I don't know."

"Arthur, I can handle myself," she assured, feeling some sort of self-preservation rise up in her chest. For a split second, she regretted hugging Arthur so vulnerably; throwing herself onto him like he was her lifeline. But then he shook his head and his face fell and all she wanted was to make that expression vanish from his features.

"I know," he mumbled. He took a careful step forward. "I've seen you with a gun, woman, and you can sure use it. I just… every time I think about us gettin' in danger, I think about how constrainin' that corset is and –"

The sound of Arya's laughter interrupted him, and he jerked his eyes back to where she stood, holding her hands to her chest. "Oh, Arthur!" she laughed.

He'd heard that phrase so many times in his life, but now, spoken from her laughing lips and scrunched black eyes, the phrase never felt so good.

"What?" he growled, feeling almost embarrassed to have exposed how he felt.

"This corset can be taken off easily with a knife," she chuckled. "All I got to do is tear the hem in half and my movements are improved. And besides, I'm still sure I can shoot a gun all dolled up."

He laughed and took another step closer. By now, he stood inches from her, and if she wished too, she could reach out to him.

The tension suddenly snapped, and Arya gulped.

"Why wear it when it can be so easily torn off?" he asked, his eyes wandering down the length of her.

"I… I don't know," she mumbled, fingers fidgeting in her lap. "I don't normally wear this."

"No, you don't," he breathed back, twisting his neck to look at her from another angle. From his vantage point – so much taller than her – he couldn't see her eyes. She was looking down, her loose hair falling across her cheeks.

He reached out and scraped his thumb across the soft skin of her jaw. Something in his gut twisted and warmth pooled in his groin. The air became taunt, the space between them like an eternal rift. He pulled her in, pushing against the back of her neck with his hand. A timid step forward and she looked up, wetting her mouth with her tongue.

Arthur let out a strangled sound. He leaned in slowly, as if not to startle her, and pressed his mouth gently to hers. The familiarity of her filled his senses and he drowned. He lost himself as his hands gripped either side of her face, fingertips in her hairline.

Her lips were wet and warm, and the way she gripped the front of his blouse made him lose all control. He clawed at her hair until she was pressed firmly against him, her mouth moving along his with tongue and teeth.

She smelled so good and tasted so sweet, and Arthur nipped at her mouth until he couldn't hold it anymore and took her lower lip between his teeth. A low sound came from her and she pulled him closer, knuckles white from the force of holding his blouse. His beard raked against the soft flesh of her cheeks and chin, but the feeling was satisfying.

Arthur's hands left the warmth of her face and traveled down her bare arms, until he settled them at her hips. Arya freed her lip from his teeth and returned to kiss him full force, knocking the wind out of both of them. Her tongue danced along his full mouth, along his own tongue when he opened up for her. She reached up on her toes – because God damn this man was tall – and dug her hands into his hair.

Arthur's fingertips grazed the intricate lacing of the back of her gown, and a wild thought overcame him.

He broke from the kiss and turned her quickly, so quick she almost fell. She was startled, red mouthed and panting. The man didn't miss a beat. He curled a hand around her waist, pressing flat on her stomach, and pressed her back against his front. A low huffing sound escaped her mouth, but she did nothing to escape his grip.

He could feel the curve of her ass along his crotch and he groaned lowly, any inhibition or restraint having flown straight out the window. Arthur couldn't think straight as he grazed his free hand along her bare shoulder and down to her collarbone. She gave a quick and low whine, which she quickly bit back when Arthur's swollen mouth kissed her exposed neck. He traced along her pulsing jugular, feeling her gasp in his grip. The hand on her stomach twitched.

"Arthur," she whispered.

His name from her mouth like so made his entire body light up from within. Fires raged inside him, boiling and straining against the thin restraint he still kept on. His left hand gripped her shoulder, holding her up as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to her collarbone, while his right hand pressed against her belly, making sure she stayed flush against him.

"Tell me what you want me to do," he groaned against her hot skin.

Her head lolled back against his shoulder and a breathy moan escaped her. Arthur's own excitement was beginning to make itself known against her ass, strained and hard in his pants. The fire in him was making him senseless, as if nothing mattered but the girl in his arms. Nothing mattered but her hot flesh and her throaty moans and her pleasure.

"Tell me," he insisted, clamping down his teeth onto the fleshy part of her shoulder.

She gave a slight wince, followed by a sigh. Her right hand came to rest over Arthur's, where he was pressing against her stomach. She carefully wrapped her tiny hand around his wrist and pushed. Downward.

Unconsciously, her insinuation made Arthur buck his hips forward, grinding onto her. He tried to restrain himself, but his control was slipping. He licked and bit her neck, sucked and kissed the skin. His grip on her shoulder was white-knuckled, and he was afraid he was going to leave a bruise.

"Use your words," he breathed against her neck.

Again, the girl whined lowly. She had her own fires raging and her own thoughts swirling like a black mess in her head. All she wanted was him and him and him, everywhere. She wanted to drown.

"I want you," she breathed. Arthur groaned, teeth on her skin, hips bucking into her slightly. "I want you to touch me."

Arthur exhaled loudly through his nose, fighting to keep from tearing right through her clothes and rutting into her without purpose. He wanted to cherish her, to worship and pleasure her like she deserved to be. He wanted her wanting and begging and wet for him, not a quick fuck to satisfy his uncontrollable needs.

His hunger for her was insatiable.

He didn't know what he was thinking as he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the knife. His mind was going haywire, thoughts so dirty he couldn't even put them into words swam in his head, temptingly.

There was no rush, however, as he pressed the blade between her skin and her dress. Afraid to hurt her, as always, Arthur saw the darting of her eyes as she felt the cold steel press on her flesh. He used both hands as he held the hem with one and cut the laces with the other. Once he'd made a slit, he threw the knife onto the bed, gripped both sides of the dress, and pulled. The material shred in half with an audible sound. It tore down to her middle back, exposing golden skin. Arthur marveled at the beauty marks and the scars peppered like stars across the expanse of her flesh.

He reached a hand out, smoothing his fingers along her achingly hot flesh.

He went right back to how they were just before, but this time, there was no rush. The sun was beginning to set on the late afternoon, and they had all night. Hell, he would take all night with her. He would take forever. The fires in him had slowed, the waves of boiling heat just quiet spurts as he pressed his lips back to her bare shoulder.

Arthur pressed his right hand against the young woman's stomach again, albeit lower. His fingers twitched and dug into the fabric of her dress. With his left hand, he traced her collarbone and down to the curve of her breast. His kissed slowly along her neck, listening to her low breaths and whines, her body relaxed against her. The ends of his hair, although short, scraped against her skin and she shivered.

She was roiled up tight like a rod, ready to burst.

Arthur inched his fingers into the collar of her dress, down across the hardened peak of her nipple, until he gripped the entirety of her breast inside his palm. He was so much taller than her, so when she sighed and fell back against him, he leaned his chin onto the top of her head. He gave a tight squeeze, clenching his teeth, before rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Her head lolled back, and Arthur went to the other side of her neck, biting and licking the newly exposed flesh.

Arya was gripping her own skirts, fingers clenched, knuckles as white as snow. Her breaths were shallow and ragged, increasing every time Arthur rubbed his thumb across her nipple. He bucked his hips and she pushed back and felt the bulge against her lower spine. Heat spread across her skin like mold and she wanted him on every inch of her flesh like a disease.

She whirled in his grip, whining at the loss of contact as his hand slipped out of her dress. Arya gripped onto his jaw and kissed him, hard. She ran her tongue along his lip, nipping and biting, unable to control her hunger for him.

Arthur slowly wrapped his arms around her waist. He dipped his head, savoring the taste of her on his lips. The dangerous outlaw, now reduced to a horny mess, hoisted the young woman in his arms and prompted her to wrap herself around him. Her gown wasn't constricting enough, and soon, Arthur was walking them towards the bed.

The mattress groaned and creaked horribly under them, but both didn't care. Arya was too busy feeling the much-needed pressure between her legs, and Arthur was drowning in her, gripping and clenching anything he could get his hands on.

Violently, he might say, he tore down Arya's dress until her breasts bounced freely from their constraints. The man took a second the admire the creamy white swells, peaked nipples red and swollen, before diving head first onto her chest. She gave a quiet whimper once his mouth had latched onto the sensitive skin around her nipple. Hands dug into his hair and pulled, eliciting a groan from him as he swirled his tongue flat against her peaked nub.

Her back arched off the bed, the mattress responding with an eagerly appreciative shriek. A low sigh escaped her, eyes hooded as she let the feeling of his tongue on her nipple run across her flesh like scattering insects.

"Oh, God, Arthur," she whined, white-knuckling his brown locks.

He smiled against her skin, his beard scratching the sensitive flesh.

He let go of her with a wet pop, watching her breast bounce back. When his scorching blue gaze made contact with her swan eyes, he couldn't help the deep blush creeping onto his cheeks. It had been a while since he'd made any woman squirm and moan under him like that. And to have this beautiful young woman spread under him, completely at his mercy, made the blood rush down to his crotch alarmingly fast.

She was looking at him with so much trust and vulnerability that his heart squeezed, and he dipped down to give her a tender kiss, caressing her cheek. She moaned into his mouth as she felt him against her core, her thighs squeezing around him.

A loud and sudden banging at the door ripped them apart like two thin seams of a cloth. Arthur jumped back to his feet, as if fire danced before him. Arya gathered her dress onto her chest and shot to her feet as well, panting as if she'd run the mile.

"Emily!" It was Clementine. "Emily, open up!"

Arya, cheeks red, mouth swollen from kissing, gave Arthur a worried glance. She could see the mortification on his own features, what with the rapidly blinking eyes and heavy breathing.

"What is it?" Arya called back after clearing her throat. She walked towards the door, holding her dress against her breasts.

"It's Summer!" Clementine urged, voice ringing with a tragic tone. "The baby is comin'."

Arya frowned. "Go get the midwife," she suggested. How much it would be awkward to go back to Arthur after the rude interruption, but alas, how much she wanted to go back to him was burning her.

"She's in Strawberry!" Clementine said. "Apparently, she left with this hunk. We sent Sam to go an' fetch her. Could you please help us with Summer?"

Arya sighed and leaned her forehead against the wood of the door. She was getting closer to these girls, which would provide information on the whole deal later on. She wasn't about to mess it all up because her hormones were raging through the roof.

"Give me a minute," she said.

"Thank you!"

Arya, without looking at the man lurking by the bed, wiggled out of her torn dress and into her trousers. She looked outside for a brief instant, realizing the darkness of the sky. How long had they been at it?

Clearing her throat, she said, "I'll be back." She gave Arthur a tight, shy smile before slipping right out of the door.

Well, that was not how she'd envisioned her night going.

When she'd made it across the hall, noticing the husbands gathered down in the lobby, she could hear Summer groaning on the other side of the door. Inside, candles had been lit in every corner and on every flat surface, a bowl of hot water steamed beside the bed, and clean cloth was strewn across it. Sitting on the edge was a sweating, half naked Summer.

"Hey," Arya croaked awkwardly.

Summer lifted her gaze. "Ah," she sighed, "another one to come see me suffer."

Arya nodded to Arabetha and Anna-Rose. "Any of you ladies know how to deliver a child?" she asked.

The two youngest shook their heads, clutching onto each other's hands.

Clementine came to stand beside Summer. "Well," she sighed. "We should get her comfortable, right?"

Arya sighed, closing her eyes. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her white shift and marched across to where Summer sat. She didn't miss how Clementine gave the caramel-haired girl a once over, probably noticing the strange attire of trousers instead of carefully beaded dresses.

"Summer, how far apart are the contractions?" she asked.

Summer rose her head of dark hair, which was carefully braided back. Her brow was glistening with sweat as she gave Arya an incredulous look. "A while apart."

Arya nodded. "Lay back." She gestured towards the bed, helping the pregnant woman with her hand. "I'll check to see the position of the baby."

Clementine put a careful hand on Arya's shoulder. "You know how to do this?" she asked, frowning, jealousy running deep in her features.

Arya shrugged. "I helped my mother deliver over a dozen babies back in Delaware," she answered. "I will make sure everything is alright and that Summer is comfortable until the midwife arrives."

Clementine mulled it over, frowning, then retreated back to where the two younger women stood at the foot of the bed. Arya looked them all over; trembling hands, wandering eyes, and stressing out. Arya couldn't have idle hands and stress around Summer.

"Arabetha, Anna-Rose," she ordered. The two girls went rigid. "Keep the water warm. Cut as much cloth as you can get your hands on, preferably into wide and long strips. We are going to need a lot of that. Also, make a cradle for the baby with clean cloth and a pillow."

Arabetha was quick to take the other young girl by the hand and start doing exactly what Arya had asked.

"And me?" asked Clementine.

"You will keep Summer comfortable," Arya answered. "Keep her pillows fluffed and her hand held and her water glass full. Anything she asks, you get it for her."

Clementine glided across the room to sit beside her friend and hold her hand.

Arya pulled Summer's white shift over her belly, exposing her lower half to the air. The pregnant woman did not seem to care. Her belly was so big and round, smooth under Arya's hands as she pressed them along the flesh. The young woman felt around the sides, the lower belly, pressing uncomfortably and getting pained whimpers from Summer.

Arya frowned. She insisted on one side of Summer, and then on the other, before rolling down Summer's shift.

"Okay, here's the deal Summer," Arya sighed. "You child is coming out feet first."

"'Wonderful," she groaned.

"The thing is, I'm afraid that the umbilical cord is wrapped around their neck," Arya proceeded. "There's no way to know if that is true or not, but you will have to stay in a little ball on your side until your contractions are seconds apart and you've fully dilated. Do you understand me?"

Summer, panting, nodded her head frantically. "Okay."

"No matter what happens, you cannot move," Arya continued, helping the pregnant woman onto her side. "You can squeeze my hand or Clementine's as much as you want, but don't move. The cord might tighten if you do."

Summer nodded, whimpering as she brought her legs up under her. Resting her damp hair onto the pillow, she looked up at Arya with wide eyes. The woman clung to her hand and sat on the side of the bed, waiting for the midwife to arrive.

They waited for an hour. Arabetha and Anna-Rose busied themselves with the water and the cloths and the cradle. Clementine readjusted the pillows, reassured her friend, and brought her water whenever she asked. Summer's contractions were getting stronger and faster, making the poor woman moan and shriek behind clenched teeth and shut eyes. She was doing good, however, not moving an inch as the contractions rocked over her. Arya consoled and congratulated her as much as she could.

When the midwife arrived, barging through the door, wearing a grey gown with a shawl, she went straight for Summer.

"What have you done?" she mumbled, gesturing to the position they had Summer in.

"The baby is coming feet first," Arya announced, not leaving Summer's side. "The cord might be wrapped around the child's neck."

The midwife, strong built and heavy set with thick brown hair and hard black eyes, put her hands on her hips. "How far apart are her contractions?"

"Two minutes."

Summer was panting as they rolled her onto her stomach, spreading her knees and feet, rolling up her white shift. Blood had speckled and coated the mattress when she'd been lying, and now leaked onto her new position.

"Oh, he's comin' alright," the midwife said with a large smile.

For two hours, Arya held Summer's hand as the latter groaned and shrieked and cursed. The two younger girls brought as much clean cloth and hot water as necessary. Clementine blanched at the sight of blood and sat by the window.

Two hours later, Arya stood and grabbed a soaked cloth. She smiled, opened the door, and waddled down the stairs. She was sore from sitting, bending over, and holding down Summer. The poor girl's hand was bruised and maimed and bloodied as she made it into the lobby.

She faced the strained faces of Neil, Loyd, Clyde, and Arthur. Neil got to his feet, wearing a white shirt and loosely tied dress pants. His hair was a mess, his eyes wild as he stood before the young woman.

She smiled broadly, wiping the blood from her fingers, and jutted her chin up the stairs. "Go say hello to your wife and daughter."

The man sprang up the stairs in a hurry with a quick "thank you" to Arya. The three others got to their feet slowly, Arthur slowly walking up to her.

Arya's eyes saw the cards on the table and smiled, then nodded her head as Loyd and Clyde walked passed her and up the stairs.

"You alright?" Arthur asked, craning his neck to meet her gaze.

"Yes," she sighed. "I'm exhausted."

Arthur's gaze dropped to her speckled fingers. "Is she…?"

Arya noticed where his gaze had landed and quickly shook her head. "She's fine, this is… normal. Don't worry."

Arthur gave her a tight smile, then leaned in slowly and pecked her forehead. It was nothing like the heated kiss they'd shared just hours before. But it soothed Arya's aches, and all she wanted was to be wrapped up in his arms.

He shyly took a step away from her. "Let's get you to bed," he mumbled.

She nodded, staying almost a foot away from him as they climbed the stairs to their room.

* * *

 **Ok so! I have never given birth or seen a live birth, but this situation happened to my best friend when she was born, so I used that for Summer's delivery. Don't come at me with all the wrongs about this birth, because I don't know 100% how birthing goes. Just go with it, for the sake of this story. Haha!**

 **Reference Guide:**

\- **Neil and Summer Crawford**

 **\- Clyde and Arabetha Thompson**

 **\- Loyd and Clementine Sweeney**

 **\- Jules and Anna-Rose Bailey**

 **-** **Sam Mulroney (Significant other unknown)**


	16. CHAPTER FIFTEEN: NEVER TRUST THE HEARTS

**So I have absolutely no excuse for how LATE this is other than I had a little mental health issues for a while. I hope you enjoy this addition. I will continue this as I did before: one update weekly. Thank you to those who are still with me, and thank you to those who reviewed these past few months. I have read each and ever review!**

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN: NEVER TRUST THE HEARTS OF MEN

 _All ye maidens hede my warning_  
 _Never trust the hearts of men_  
 _They will crush you like a sparrow_  
 _Leaving you to never mend_

 _Day five_

Arya awoke to the strange feeling of being alone. The bed was cold, missing the warmth of the man she'd been asleep next to all night. As she rose to a sitting position, she remarked the dent in Arthur's pillow. A blush crept along her cheeks.

She had been too exhausted to continue what she'd started with Arthur last night. After Summer's baby coupled with staying up half the night in a state of constant stress, Arya had been more than willing to just lay on the bed and sleep.

She still, however, could not stop her mind from replaying all that happened. Arthur's hands on her, so warm and big and calloused; a huge contrast to her soft flesh. His mouth against hers; full and plump, his beard scratching her chin. His tongue against the sensitive skin of her nipples, with his body poised harshly against the crook of her parted legs.

Even now, remembering all that as she sat on the edge of the creaking bed, the memories made her thighs clamp together.

She had, however, to keep those things out of her mind. They had a job to do. Oil to steal and people to scam. She could not let Arthur's person, his scent and his voice, and all that made her feel like jelly, keep her from performing her job. She needed money, after all.

She needed money to get her revenge on her brother's killer. She needed money to start a life elsewhere.

With that in mind, Arya stood and got dressed in a midnight blue gown. She slipped on her shawl for the morning was fresh, the open window letting in a cool breeze as she knotted her hair into two twin French braids. She looked at herself in the mirror before she left, patting down her skirts self-consciously.

Arya had never been a self-conscious girl. She knew she was average looking and not ugly, with ink drop eyes and caramel hair and a fair figure, but she'd also never been the girl to fuss over how she looked. And now here she was, thinking and praying that Arthur found her pretty.

When Arya was locking her door, she saw Clementine climbing the stairs and headed towards Summer's room.

"Morning, Clementine," Arya said, smiling. "How is Summer and the baby?"

Clementine turned, revealing a white cream dress that worked wonders with her skin. "Oh, she's fine!" the young lady said. "Would you want to see the child?"

Arya nodded and followed behind Clementine. Once inside the room, which smelled of lavender and fresh air, she spotted the sage woman sitting by the window, knitting children's clothing, and Neil Crawford, bent over a cheque book by his wife's bed.

And Summer, looking ravishing in the early sunlight, held her new bundle in her arms under a thick array of bed sheets.

"Emily!" she exclaimed, wide smile on her face. "What a pleasure! Did you bring your husband with you too?"

Arya blushed, despite none of the people in the room knowing a damn thing about what conspired instances before Arya had been whisked away to help.

"No, I'm afraid I don't know where he is," she confessed instead. "Would you happen to know, Mr. Crawford?"

Neil hummed absentmindedly, looking up from the rim of his book. "I'm sure he's nice and fed with the boys at the saloon, ma'am."

Arya's stomach pinched. Why hadn't he stayed with her? Was he having second thoughts about what had happened last night? He'd seemed to share her attraction, however.

Arya smiled nonetheless and went to Summer, her hand out to brush against the baby's head. She had a small patch of black hair and was snuggled tightly in knitted blankets.

"She is wonderful," Arya whispered. She'd seen many babies in her lifetime, but she did have to admit that this little one was a precious bundle.

"We named her Victoria," Summer whispered, careful not to wake the child.

"Beautiful, ain't she?" Clementine sighed, wonder in her eyes.

"Your time will come." Summer smiled. What calamity had been between the both before yesterday had vanished.

Arya spent most of the early afternoon with Summer and the baby, holding her and singing to her. She was well aware of the looks the sage woman was throwing her way, but Arya didn't care. She tried, in vain, the ask questions to Neil about the oil operation, but without revealing that she knew about the trick, she couldn't get anything out of him.

Deciding her attempt at the dotting friend would squeeze out no new information, Arya decided to join Arthur in the saloon. She bid her friends goodbye and made her way through the muddy street. By then, it was mid-afternoon, the sun high and hot, causing the young lady to take off her shawl and tie it around her waist.

Arthur sure was in the saloon, bent over the table with the other men, their heads close together in conversation. He did not seem to notice her entrance, but Anna-Rose and Arabetha did, from their little table, and rose to greet her.

"Emily," Arabetha crooned. "Did you see baby Victoria?"

Arya kissed both women on the cheek and sat with them, her eyes searching Arthur's face. Why was she acting like this?

"I have," Arya breathed. "Beautiful girl."

Arabetha seemed to notice where Arya's gaze kept going and laughed. "Oh, they've been at it all mornin'," she said, trying to relieve Arya. "I want Clyde to take me to see the waterfront and the bridges but looks like we will be here all day."

Arya smiled tightly, hating the knotted ball in her stomach. Was Arthur mad with her?

It didn't matter. She was here for a job, and she'd do it. "What have they even been talking about?" she asked, adjusting her skirts, trying to look inconspicuous. In truth, she was dying for this mission to end so she could gather her much needed money. It would be a step closer to Colm.

"Oh, that whole shenanigan with Mr. Cornwall," Arabetha sighed.

Arya's eyes snapped up. Oh, so it would turn out to be Arabetha to tell her some information and not just Summer and Clementine.

"Has Mr. Cornwall trapped any thieves?" she asked in a hushed tone, a tone of woman gossip.

Arabetha's eyes narrowed. "And how in the hell would you know of that?" she gritted.

"Summer told me about a feller by the name of Van Der Linde," Arya whispered, bending over the table. "She told me Mr. Cornwall orchestrated this whole ordeal to catch that man."

"And O'Driscoll," Anna-Rose whispered.

The name sent a shiver down Arya's spine.

Just then, a woman came and put three cups of coffee and plates of meat and potatoes. Arya's mouth watered and her stomach groaned as she dove almost right in. She almost forgot her manners. She was relieved to have her mind elsewhere than Arthur's presence, and she was glad to eat something resourceful after a whole night of labor.

"So you are aware of this whole ordeal?" Anna-Rose asked carefully. Arya took a sip of her coffee to wash down the potatoes.

"Yes." No point in lying. Summer had told her almost everything she needed to know.

They would all be traveling with the oil in three days to Annesburg. Cornwall would probably send his men to watch for thieves and also act as security. Arthur's pretend security would arrive tomorrow; that is Charles and Lenny. Cornwall planned on catching any rebel gang or thieves with this delicious attraction of rich men and women carrying oil.

What Cornwall didn't know is half of the Van Der Linde gang would be waiting for them halfway to Annesburg. Once Charles and Lenny would be here, Arya and Arthur would tell them to rally that information back to Dutch.

"I just hope that when the thieves do come, my husband won't be caught in the crossfire," Arabetha sighed.

Arya frowned. "Is Cornwall certain that thieves will come?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," Arabetha answered with an honest nod.

"How come?"

Arabetha smiled, happy to be the center of attention. With Summer and Clementine confined to their rooms, the young lady now had the floor all to herself, with both Anna-Rose and Arya hanging from her lips.

"Legend has it that this Van Der Linde feller has been seen in New Elizabeth," she commenced with a hushed voice. "He's already robbed a train from Cornwall with his gang of mutts, so it is believed he will strike again if the opportunity looks clean."

If only women weren't as much gossips as they were, maybe Cornwall would have succeeded.

Arya went on with her questioning, looking as inconspicuous as she could muster. Truth is, she was dying to get every little detail out of Arabetha. "And how will Cornwall monitor this?" She already knew he had men coming along with them on their ride to Annesburg. She wanted to know more.

"He's got men comin' with us to Annesburg," Arabetha answered with a low smile. "And some will be waitin' in Annesburg."

She didn't need to finish her sentence. Arya knew Annesburg was a poor town with little to no security. Cornwall was sure Dutch or Colm would strike there, knowing Annesburg's citizens would just go hide. Unlike Saint-Denis, where there was police and security. And Dutch or Colm would never strike where the security is thick.

This Cornwall guy was smart. But Arya was smarter.

She kept all this information to herself, choosing to let Arthur know when they would go back to their room. If he ever even turned to look at her.

She turned her head to look at him for an instant, noticing the dark blue vest he had over his white blouse. His sandy hair was swept behind his ears, and Arya had a brief memory of passing her fingers through his soft locks.

"It's alright," Arabetha cooed from across the table. "He ain't supposed to show his love for ya unless it's behind closed doors, right, Anna-Rose?"

Arya frowned.

"Just wait until ya'll are in your room," Anna-Rose whispered. "We heard ya'll last night."

Arya's cheeks went bright red and hot in an instant. She tried to cover her face, but Arabetha burst into quiet laughter, and her cover was blown. No point in hiding now. Arya turned to peak at Arthur. The laughter had caught his ear and he was looking their way now. He gave the young woman a corner smile, which she returned shyly.

Soon after their lunch was done, Arthur stood and sauntered her way. His hand carefully reached out, not touching her, to guide her to her feet. "Can I steal my wife for a second?" he asked.

"Of course," Arabetha mused behind her hand, smirking with Anna-Rose.

Arya caught the sight of the orange sky outside. Afternoon had quickly turned into early evening. People in the saloon were transitioning from casual men and women to the usual revelers of the night.

Still just barely grazing her lower back with his hand, he led her towards the door. She felt the hurriedness in his stance. He was tense, stoic like a cold slab of wood.

"What's wrong?" she asked under her breath.

He made eye contact with her briefly as they exited the saloon. "Charles and Lenny are arrivin' soon. I want to be out here to greet them." Looks like the boys would be getting here sooner than she thought.

He guided her to the porch of the saloon, into the refreshing night. The sky was painted bruise purple and flame orange, lonely clouds wandering the canvas.

"Did you sleep fine?" he asked her, leaning his elbows on the railing. She stood beside him, hands in her skirts nervously. She examined the sharpness of his jaw, examined the distance she felt from him, when mere hours ago, she'd been tangled in with him like two magnets.

"I did," she breathed. "After all that time with Summer, I was exhausted."

"I can only imagine." He looked beyond, at the horizon, where the many tents spread out on the town lines. Where most of Crawford's security was, sitting by their fires.

"Why weren't you in bed this morning?" she mumbled, feeling stupid and dramatic all at once.

He sighed. "I just…" His voice trailed off into the quietness of the evening. Arya licked her lips and sternly walked beside him, facing him down. When he looked up, his blue gaze caught the haughty ink eyes of the girl and he stood straight. "I don't want to be dishonourable."

"Dishonourable?" she repeated in an angry tone. "Because we aren't…" she lowered her tone. "Because I ain't a married woman?"

"No!" he answered behind clenched teeth. "None of that. I just… I ain't no good man, Arya. I ain't a man who would make a good father."

"Oh," she mumbled. "You know, there exists methods of – "

"I know," he grumbled. "But I'm just… I'm afraid I'll hurt you."

"Hurt me?"

"I see John and Abigail, and yesterday, when we…" he sighed, scratched the back of his neck. "When we you know… I couldn't get the thought of them outta my head this mornin'. What if you were to get pregnant? I can't… I can't be the man you'd need."

She sighed heavily through her nostrils. "I wasn't asking you to make me a child, Arthur." Her jaw was clenched. "And for one thing, you _are_ a good man, Arthur."

His conflicted eyes met hers for an instant before he looked over her head, to the darkening horizon. He sighed. "Oh, Arya," he breathed. "We can try again if – "

A hoot and howl interrupted him. Arya turned on her heels towards the sound, her cheeks red from the words that were about to fall from Arthur's lips.

Up ahead, coming towards them like two ghosts in the night, their figures outlined against the pastel canvas sky, was Charles and Lenny. They waved at the pair on the porch, who were climbing down to the street to greet them.

Arthur went quietly to Charles, embracing the man briefly, just as Lenny made the same with Arya.

"So good to see you," Arthur said lowly.

"Of course, Mr. Casey Brown," Lenny whispered, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"You can set up camp with Crawford's men, over there," Arya said, jutting her chin to the tents outlining the town lines. "It'll provide good cover too."

"Thank you," Charles said, nodding briefly.

"Any news?" Arthur asked.

"Just Dutch still devising his plan," Lenny answered. "Involves a place in the tropics."

Arthur gave a curt nod, directing the young men towards the encampment. Arya watched them for a few moments, her eyes carrying over Arthur's strong back and broad shoulders. She wondered, when the oil would arrive and the time for guns will begin, when she will hold her share of the money between her fingers, if he'd go back to acting like before. She wondered if it was only the act of playing husband and wife that had made him attracted to her as he was. She wondered if he would go back to being her friend instead of being the man she'd grown attached to.


	17. CHAPTER SIXTEEN: SMOKING GUNS

**Here is the well anticipated conclusion of this mission. Phew! It's been a long one, huh? I decided to update early because I think ya'll deserve it after waiting so long. Howdy!**

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN: SMOKING GUNS

 _Hear that lonesome whippoorwill_  
 _He sounds too blue to fly_  
 _The midnight train is whining low_  
 _I'm so lonesome I could cry_

 _Day six_

Arthur groaned as he came to. His eyes broke apart, crusted at the edges from sleeping on the edge of a saloon table. Every single joint and bone cried and whined as he sat straight, his spine sensitive as it made contact with the chair.

His mouth was pasty and dry. Passing a hand in his hair proved to meet with many knots. Blue eyes searched the saloon, illuminated by very early morning sunlight.

A groan to his left brought his sluggish mind to pay attention.

Charles shuffled from his perch at the table beside Arthur, his dark hair sprawled over the wood like intricate dark waterfalls.

Arthur's headache pounded in his head.

So they'd drank all night and partied until the wee hours of morning, and now here they sat, with Lenny on the floor and the Crawford gang sprawled on the bar.

He groaned as he got to his feet, scratching his growing beard, wondering if he should take to the knife soon. A thought passed and left his mind, remembering just how much Arya had liked his beard. Arthur shook the thought away, images of her sprawled on the squeaking bed playing behind his closed lids. At first, it made the blood in his body move from its sluggish pace. But then he remembered the feeling he'd had upon waking up: the fear. The fear and discord in his chest.

And all he could think of, as he slowly walked out of the saloon, catching the first rays of light, was Eliza. As Arthur stopped and regained his balance on the porch railing, his treacherous mind went back to his days with Eliza; how he'd slept with her and put a boy in her. How he'd taken his responsibilities as good as he could muster to buy a cabin and afford food and shelter for his little family. How there was not a person in the world, not even his own son, that could keep him from Dutch. And that is probably why Eliza and Isaac were murdered one night, when Arthur was away.

Would he do that to Arya? No. He would not put another woman under the crumbling effects of his responsibility. And even if she said all these things of prevention methods (which did not always work, let's be honest), and even if she could damn well care about herself, he didn't want to see another woman afflicted with the same anger, sadness, and nostalgia as Abigail.

And yet Arthur could not stop himself from wanting Arya. There was a pull to her, some kind of impossible force, that tethered him to her. After he kissed her, and after they'd gone much farther than that two nights ago, he could not stop his mind from reeling to her every few minutes. He couldn't stop his body from being near her, making sure she was safe, making sure there was nothing in this world that could hurt her.

A passing wagon brought Arthur out of his daydream. He looked up to the rising sun.

Yesterday, Arthur and Arya had a disagreement on this very porch, and he'd told her they could try again. Now, with his newly formed mentality, he wasn't so sure.

Tomorrow morning, the oil would be here. Crawford's security would be on their toes. Cornwall's men would be here to spy. And they risked coming into contact with O'Driscolls. Arthur could not risk having his head elsewhere. He needed to be level-headed and have a clear conscious when he would point a gun at Neil Crawford's head and begin the end of this too-long mission.

Arthur stumbled into the muddy street, his boots sucking on the wet dirt, as he aimed for the hotel. He was sure Arya was still asleep, so he crept up slowly, turning the key into the lock, but the creaking of the door awoke the young girl in the bed.

She was curled facing the wall, her caramel hair like a halo on the pillow. At the sound of the door shrieking closed, she stirred and turned to him. Her eyes snapped open and she sat up quickly, tossing her hair behind her ears.

"Arthur," she said, voice roach from sleep.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Did I wake you?"

"Yes."

"Sorry."

"Where were you?" she asked timidly, bringing her knees to her chin.

Arthur walked to the desk and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest. "Charles and Lenny felt it necessary to party with Crawford's men," he grumbled.

"That's good," Arya said, nodding in thought. "Neil won't even anticipate this."

Arthur grunted in agreement. "Can't wait for this to be over," he said. He saw, for a quick second, a shadow of hurt cross the young woman's face, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

"Me too."

Arthur needed a bath, so he left the young woman to dress herself as he went downstairs to wash. He let the bath water boil his skin and the soap seep into every pore of his body. He washed his hair quickly and trimmed his beard with the razor blade left for tenants. Then he dressed himself into trousers, boots, and a black blouse. The day would be hot, so Arthur didn't add a vest or a coat, and emerging out of the bath house, he noticed Arya waiting for him in the lobby.

She wore a tight gown of deep green and gold, long sleeves reaching her wrists, and the hem scraping against the hotel floorboards. She was a sight to see, with her hair in a thick braid along her back, and Arthur's chest squeezed with regret. Regret over his decision of pushing her away.

And he could see the resolution on her face: squared jaw, bored eyes, and tight-lipped smile. They still had a role to play for this mission, but it didn't mean they didn't feel the tension between each other.

Nonetheless, he took her hand and they went about their day pretending to be married; pretending to be as close to one another as they both wish they could be. If this world were different, if this life weren't his, he would marry her with the ring he had back at camp. But this life was his and this world wasn't different, and so, when night came and the party began in the saloon, he watched her head back to the hotel room with regret lodged deep in his gut.

 _Day seven_

Arya decided that on the morning of the raid, she would wear her most beautiful and non-confining outfit. It was a riding suit that Grimshaw had packed for her. An all black outfit set with secret pockets and straps to hide knives or small pistols. Tight leather trousers, a chin-high corset, and a long coat that reached her heels with sleeves that tightened on her wrists. Under her long coat, at the bottom of her spine, were attached two small revolvers. Between her breasts, a knife. In her knee-length boots, a tiny pistol for emergency use. It looked like she wore a cinched half dress, but as she walked out into the daylight, she could feel the stares of the women in the chariot.

"Will you not ride with us?" Summer called from inside her chariot. Beside her, Clementine, Arabetha, and Anna-Rose. Baby Victoria was snug against her mother's breast.

Arya looked on at them with a tight smile. Her heart tumbled wildly in her chest, both out of fear and anticipation.

"I'll be riding!" she called back. She watched Summer wrinkle her nose, and Arya just couldn't wait to put a gun to her nose.

Lined in front of the Valentine hotel, in the muddy street, was a chorus of carefully planned positions. First, at the top of the line, were four men on horseback, who held rifles in their hands or slung across their backs. Following the men was the first barrel of oil on a wagon. Black glistened as the huge cylinder of metal sat on the groaning, wooden wagon.

Arya had witnessed the barrels of oil arriving this morning, as she was up and early, her throat tight. Both from the man sleeping in her bed and the job ahead.

Behind the first barrel were two more men on horseback. Then followed the stagecoach holding the four carefully dressed women. They all wore their best attires, what to attract thieves with, and their most glistening jewelry. Arya had heard Anna-Rose's husband, Jules, telling his wife not to worry, that no one would get close to her. What a joke.

Behind the stagecoach being led by two of Crawford's men were the four husbands and Sam Mulroney, the only single man on the business trip. They were armed to the teeth. Arya saw that as she climbed onto her chosen mount. Neil had two pistols on each hip and a rifle swinging from his horse's saddle. Jules and Loyd were fans of shotguns and held theirs expertly in one hand. Clyde Thompson was fan of a single, solitary rifle.

Sam Mulroney turned to Arya with a vicious smile. "Time to get those thieves," he sneered.

Arya, next to Arthur, were part of the security team behind the Crawford's men and before the second oil wagon.

For a second, she thought Mulroney suspected her, but then he winked, and she gave a shaky smile. She turned her eyes to Arthur, who wore a heavy vest, under which were hidden two revolvers. Across his back, his beloved rifle. He was inconspicuous, part of the security team, hence why his armed self was not suspicious to anyone. If any of these men saw Arya's weaponry, they'd sure turn a suspicious glare on her, however.

Arthur gave her a slow nod. He turned his head to where Charles and Lenny held the back of the line, behind the last oil wagon, with more of Crawford's and Cornwall's men.

The plan was badly stitched, but they would win.

Yesterday, while Arthur was busy distracting the men, Arya rallied all the information to Charles and Lenny. Together they decided the specifics, to which Charles took a brief break from security and ran back to camp to tell Dutch.

If all went well, and it should because there was a lot of money involved, half-way to Annesburg was hidden the Van Der Linde gang. Mary-Beth or Karen, whichever would volunteer, would play a lost rider, afraid of her mount, in need of some manly help. Distracted and wary, Arthur and Arya would then shoot Crawford's men dead, while Lenny and Charles took care of the unsuspecting security in the back. As for the front, the gang would take care of that from the forest.

Once everyone is dead or taken hostage, Arya was charged with the women. She'd strip them of their jewelry and whatever money they held on their person. She was to leave them tied beside the stagecoach. Arthur was in charge of the first wagon, while John Marston the second. Honestly, Arya hoped his hand was better or else he'd steer his wagon into a lake. And John didn't swim.

As the entire lineup started its slow ascent out of Valentine, Arya's heart began to throb in her throat. She became acutely aware of the knife between her breasts, of the pistols pressing against her spine, of the heat boiling her from inside her riding outfit.

"Arthur!" Mulroney called from his place slightly up ahead. "You let your wife ride a horse like that?"

Arya's brows furrowed, and she was about to clap back, when Arthur laughed.

"My wife can damn well do whatever she wants, Mr. Mulroney!" he answered, his voice both laced with laughter and menace.

"She ought to be in the stagecoach with the women and child!" Mulroney continued.

"There was barely any place left, Mr. Mulroney," Arya answered back, trying her hardest to sound subdued and lithe. She couldn't wait to put a bullet behind his head.

"What will you do if some bad fellers come through these trees and start shootin', ma'am?" he asked, mentioning the said trees with the butt of his rifle.

"If it's her security you're concerned about," Arthur drawled nonchalantly, "you should leave that up to me and go find yourself your own wife."

Sam chuckled darkly. "Good one, Mr. Brown."

By now, they were out of Valentine, the bustling of the town behind them. Ahead were the sloping valleys and mountains of West Elizabeth. After a short while on the narrow paths, they entered the dense forest towards Annesburg. They had about two hours to go before the ambush.

Arya settled onto her mount, trying to ignore the sounds of wagon wheels and turning iron nails and horse hooves on the ground. She tried to find a quiet meditation in her mind as she prepared for the ambush, when she'd have to be quicker than lightning. They were relying on the effect of surprise to help them, but if one thing went awry, their plans would have to rely on their trigger readiness.

By the time the sound of a distressed woman carried to Arya's ears, she had almost forgotten the mission.

Arya craned her neck to look ahead, aware of Arthur's uncomfortable twitching, and surely, there was Karen straddling a scared black horse. She was far away but close enough to hear her cries, to see just how panicked the horse was.

"Help me, dear God!" she was yelling, halfway on and halfway off her mount. "Help me!"

"Women shouldn't ride," Sam Mulroney groaned.

"Help!" Karen was getting nearer; each hoof beat of her horse matching the racing heartbeat in Arya's chest.

"Someone help the poor woman!" Arthur bellowed.

Two men in the front, Crawford's men, went off at a gallop, catching up with Karen's horse not far from where we were all stopped.

"Oh, thank you!" Karen shouted when her horse had settled, much thanks to one of the men grabbing onto the loose reins.

Just as the horse came to a slow stop, hoofing and huffing, Arya's vision tunneled, and the heart in her chest began throbbing incessantly.

Karen reached behind her and took out a revolver. Some of the men shouted. Karen's gun went off, smoking at the tip, one of Crawford's men that came to help her toppling off his horse.

Arya reached back with both hands and ripped both revolvers from their holster at her spine.

Karen's gun went off again.

The women in the stagecoach screamed. Neil, in front of Arthur, reared his horse.

Then the back of Neil Crawford's head opened like a flower in mid May, red and gory, as he tumbled off his horse.

There was gunfire in the back. Gunfire in the front.

People came running out of the forest just as Arya leveled her guns and shot Sam Mulroney twice in the back, just as he was aiming at the Van Der Linde gang rushing from the trees. His body shuddered before he bent in half on his horse, his mount rearing and darting for the forest.

Arya jumped off her horse and aimed at Jules Bailey and shot him, her mind steeling itself, closing off to the yells and smoke and gunfire rising all around her.

Arthur had taken care of Clyde and some other. One glance behind her confirmed that placing Charles and Lenny in the back had been a good idea.

Arya took a breath, looking briefly around to assess her surroundings. There was Dutch, Sadie, John, Bill, and Javier locked in a gun fight with the remainder of Crawford's men, some even Cornwall's. Kieran, Karen, and an unknown redheaded boy were behind her, shooting across from the other gang members.

Arya headed for the stagecoach, grabbing rope from her mount that she'd stored under the saddle. She put one gun back in its holster as she approached, the screams and yells from inside reaching her ears. The baby was screeching.

She grabbed onto the door and wrenched it open. The ladies yelled, cringing away from the smoking end of Arya's weapon.

"Out!" she yelled.

"Emily, what – " Clementine began.

"I said out!" the young woman continued, louder, clenching her jaw. She looked at those posh women from under her brows, with their sparkling jewelry and fancy dresses and stupid little hats. "Out!"

"But the baby!" Summer cried.

"Put her on the bench," Arya ordered, pointing her gun directly at Summer, who gasped.

"But – "

"Put the fucking baby on the bench and get the hell out of the stagecoach!" Arya ordered, the sound of gunfire increasing momentarily. She was sure she looked impressive and intimidating in the instant. "Now!"

First, Anna-Rose darted out like a firework, gasping and crying, holding her hands to her chest. She turned and examined the battleground momentarily, and when she caught sight of her dead husband lying on the dirt ground, she let out an ear-shattering shriek and started to run to him. Arya grabbed her by the hair and hauled her back, then grabbed her at the roots and slammed her head against the side of the stagecoach. Anna-Rose fell limp onto the floor.

Clementine shrieked and ran out of the coach, standing at arms length from Arya's smoking weapon. The young woman stepped back from the coach to let the ladies out. They cast worried, fitful glances at Anna-Rose's limp body, before standing in a trembling line before Arya.

The caramel-haired girl tossed the long rope to Clementine. Behind her, the gunfire had ceased. The Van Der Linde gang were roaming dead bodies, examining them for money or anything of value. John was marching confidently towards the second oil wagon.

"Tie Anna-Rose's hands behind her back," Arya ordered of the trembling Clementine. "Then tie her to Summer, then to Arabetha. I'll tie you up after."

Arya, now holding both her weapons, aimed at the moving Clementine and at the line of fearful wives. Clementine had a hard time tying up an unconscious Anna-Rose, but then she had no trouble tying the rest. When they all sat on the ground tied but for Clementine, Arya holstered her weapons and tied the last girl.

Quietly, stoically, the young woman robbed every single one of them. She took their rings from their fingers, bracelets from their wrists. She ripped necklaces from their necks and tore fabric containing jewels from their dresses. She took their shoes and purses, the money in their dress pockets.

"We need to ride out!" Dutch yelled. Arya looked up from furrowed brows. She had not missed his baritone, booming orders.

Arthur was seated in the first wagon, pushing off one of Crawford's men with his foot. He cast a glance back at her. She ignored him, stuffing her findings in her dress pockets.

Sadie reared up on her horse, smiling, wearing a dark yellow-stained shirt and trousers, a beige cowboy hat over her blonde hair.

"Howdy there, girl!" she sing-songed. "Wanna ride back to camp?"

Arya smirked, glancing back at the tied women shaking and crying on the ground in nothing but their torn dresses.

Just then, when Arya was about to grab onto Sadie's outstretched hand, a gun shot rang clear as day through the crisp air.

The women on the floor shrieked and coward into themselves.

Arya immediately took out her weapons, rearing on her heels towards the sound. She couldn't help a glance at Arthur, who had grabbed onto his rifle.

"It's those damn O'Driscolls!" Sadie yelled, taking her own shotgun into her hands and urging her horse forward.

Arya's stomach dropped, a shiver slicing down her spine, cold and sneering.

She quickly leaned against the stagecoach, the annoying yells and screams of the wives at her back. Gunfire rained around her, splintering the coach, sending pieces of wood reeling her way. She squint through the _brouhaha_ , aiming one of her guns towards a dark figure looming at the tree line. She aimed and fired, dropping him.

Her eyes darted to Arthur. He'd climbed down the wagon and was using it as cover, aiming his rifle at the tree line.

One thing kept wheeling through her brain.

 _Someone had snitched. Someone had snitched. Someone had snitched._

It was impossible for the O'Driscolls to have known exactly where the Van Der Linde gang would have planned their ambush. And it was impossible for the O'Driscolls to know the exact route the caravan would have taken. Even if they were waiting somewhere else, they could not have possibly heard the gunshots.

But here they were, a good fifteen of them, shooting like cherry pickers from the forest tree line. _Someone had snitched._

She crouched down, scurrying through the sea of dead Cornwall and Crawford men, taking cover behind the oil wagon with Arthur.

He paused half a second to scowl at her, then went right back to shooting. The O'Driscolls were pushing in, using their heavy artillery to keep the opposing gang behind their covers. They were advancing, shooting heavily. Arya succeeded in dropping one trying to come by the side. She heard yelling all around her, gunshots and orders.

Dutch was yelling something at Arthur. He tossed something to him. Three sticks of dynamite.

Arya braced herself against the wheel of the wagon as Arthur threw the dynamite as far from the oil as possible, towards four O'Driscolls.

The explosion rocked the ground, reverberating into Arya's teeth, sending pain to scatter along her skull. People were yelling, but her ears were ringing. Dirt rained from above. Smoke clouded her vision.

She turned and tried to think through the blurriness, aiming at a running man coming for her. She shot him through the chest. Slowly, her senses came back and she was able to take down another. By the time she could hear again, the gunshots had ceased.

She stood slowly, looking through the smoke for any shadows.

Arthur walked out from behind the wagon, the tip of his rifle aimed towards the ground.

She saw the O'Driscoll before Arthur did, and she ran out, yelling, her throat constricting. Time slowed. The man came from behind the trees, aiming a pistol. Arya crashed into Arthur, who had turned to see why she had yelled, and they tumbled to the ground just as a bullet zipped by her ear, nipping the flesh. Her guns scattered to the ground, out of reach.

They crumbled to the dirt, Arya straddling his waist. She stood on her knees, effectively sliding the pistol from her boot, aiming, and just by some dumb luck, caught the O'Driscoll right in the neck. She saw the blood splutter out from his jugular as he gurgled, dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees, hands around his bloody neck.

Arya, breathless, looked down at a startled Arthur. All at once, she felt pissed and sad and happy to see his dumb face there, alive. All the emotions she'd tried to repress came flooding back, color blooming in her cheeks.

She grabbed onto the front of his shirt, balled it into a fist, and pulled him up until his nose almost touched hers. To the fact that she'd saved his life, she said: "Don't make this a habit, Mr. Morgan."


	18. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE LONELY ROAD

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE LONELY ROAD

 _You let your feet run wild_  
 _Time has come as we all, oh, go down_  
 _Yeah but for the fall, ooh, my_  
 _Do you dare to look him right in the eyes?_

She let go of his shirt and Arthur fell back against the dirt ground with a huff. He stared up at her with his big blue eyes, mouth ajar, wondering why in the hell did she even save his life. Hadn't he been about to shut down her advances? Wasn't he about to maybe break her heart?

He didn't know, and frankly, he didn't care. All he cared about, in that second, was Arya with her caramel braid straddled above him. Breathing hard. Ink drop eyes wide with fear: fear for his life and not hers.

Then she got to her feet, not sparing him another glance, and the frigidness of her features took him right back to where they'd been when they'd first met.

"Arthur!" Dutch came clambering to him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," Arthur groaned, getting to his feet. He dusted himself off, searching the grounds.

Before him was a small sea of dead men, all with various wounds. Four women in ripped and torn clothing sat huddled and bound together by the chariot. Around him, Sadie and Arya, Sean and Javier, Bill, Charles, and Lenny. Karen stood a way off. Kieran and John were sitting on the second wagon, ready to leave already.

"Take the first wagon with Arya," Dutch ordered with a smile, a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Both of you earned it. Follow John to his buyer. You'll have your cut of the money by sundown."

Arthur felt a ball in his throat as he looked up at the girl, dirt under her eye, flyaway hairs framing her sharp features. She stared back at him with a blank expression.

Arthur didn't wait to see what she'd say as he turned and made his way to the wagon. His insides were twisting and seething, cursing him for pushing her away. His tense shoulders seemed to want to turn around and smile at her, give her some kind of sign that he was still there, that he was still her friend.

He didn't miss the soft pitter patter of feet following him.

The wagon groaned as the big man climbed on, taking the reins into his calloused hands. Arya climbed in beside him quietly, the heat of her body close to his. She set a rifle she picked up from the ground between them, almost as a barrier. Arthur's chest tightened.

The horses were agitated, so when Arthur slammed the reins onto their hindquarters, they whinnied and jolted forward. Both of the riders almost fell back, Arya trying to catch her balance by putting a hand on Arthur's forearm. She held on for a long second, fingers pressed into his skin.

Then she ripped her fingers from his flesh like he was full of warts.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

The moving canopy of leaves overhead cast strange yellow glows on her face, the sun illuminating her features like a halo.

Arthur gulped.

They waited for John to catch up with them. As he idled by them on the second oil wagon, he shot Arya a wicked grin from ear to ear. "My hand's getting all good, doctor!" he called.

Arya gave the man a side smirk. "Then you're ready to get your stitches removed!"

John's face fell and he almost turned green. "Alright then," he grumbled. "Let's get these to my guy!"

The silence between Arthur and Arya grew so thick someone could slice a knife through it. The man wanted to say something, anything, to break the tension, but he was afraid small talk would just make everything awkward instead of silent. He decided to just sit there instead.

But as they followed John and Kieran through the sloping valleys and mountains, the sun arching above them, Arthur's stomach burned something fierce. He tried not to think about bringing her to Saint-Denis and kissing her in the moonlight. Or splaying his hands on the warmth of her skin. Or being so close to her that there was not an inch of her he wasn't touching. Trying not to think about how he felt when he was near her. How he felt when she wasn't there.

But he was a bad man. He was wrong. And although she'd probably killed as many men as he'd had, she was a woman. She wasn't delicate and soft, but she was a woman. She deserved to be honored and settled. She deserved a man who wouldn't put her aside for gang honor; an honor he just couldn't shake.

He didn't want to come back to her one day, and she was six feet under a tombstone.

"I need to tell you something," she said, ripping him from his thoughts. He turned to her slowly, wishing he had his hat so she wouldn't be able to see the look of distress in his eyes.

"What?" He tried to cover the tremor in his voice, but with the shooting and the running and the almost dying, he couldn't.

"You have to keep it between us," she said, elbows on her knees. Her black long coat was open, exposing her legs covered in her black leather pants. "You can't tell anyone."

"Sure thing," he said, clearing his throat. He returned his gaze to the front, making sure the horses stayed on the road.

Arya shuffled beside him, pushing her hair away from her face. "I think someone snitched."

"Snitched?" Arthur asked, turning to look at her.

She nodded slowly. "How could the O'Driscolls know exactly where we were?" she asked. Her ink-drop eyes grazed up to his. "And even if they had been tracking us, then there would have been at least one O'Driscoll with us before leaving this morning. Did you see anyone?"

Arthur took a second to think. "No."

"So they weren't in Valentine this morning," she continued. "And no one was following us. I made sure."

"They could have heard the gun fight," Arthur suggested.

"No," Arya continued. "They were at least fifteen. O'Driscolls don't ride around in huge numbers like that. It's suspicious. They go around in packs of five or six men."

"And how do you know all this?" Arthur asked lowly.

Arya opted to ignore him, which sparked the beginnings of doubt in Arthur's belly.

"No, this was planned," she said. "They came in numbers. They came equipped to fight. I think the only reason we won is because they didn't expect us to have as many people with us."

"Arya…" Arthur warned.

"Arthur, someone snitched," she continued, her features pulled in earnest. "Someone told the O'Driscolls exactly where we'd be. And they waited in the woods just a little further than our gang."

"Who exactly are you accusin'?" Arthur asked, his teeth gnashing on the words. He was getting angry. She was playing in dangerous waters.

"I'm not accusing anyone," she returned, frowning deeply. "I need to know who Charles talked to when he went back to camp to tell Dutch the plan. I need to know who was there."

"Well, if you're right, it's no one that came to fight today," he answered. He couldn't help but think her reasoning was good. He might have doubts about her, but she was telling the truth.

Something had been off.

"No," Arya said. "We can't rule anybody out. Who was that redheaded kid?"

"Oh, that'd be Sean." Arthur chuckled. "Little Irish bastard. He'd been taken by some bounty hunters. I guess someone went up and freed him while we was away."

"And he's trustworthy?" Arya asked. "In your opinion."

"Yeah, he is," Arthur drawled, sighing. "He's got a big mouth, but he's a good kid." He couldn't picture Sean going to the O'Driscolls and planning this stunt. He couldn't picture what Sean would want in return.

"What about Micah?" Arya ventured tentatively.

"Nah," he said. "He's away biding his time until he finds somethin' that Dutch will want."

Arya seemed to mull that over, thumb to her lips. She was quiet the rest of the ride, stuck in her head. Arthur didn't want to shed light on her truth, but she was getting dangerously close to breaking apart the gang. If she began accusing people left and right of playing in Colm's hands, she'd tear the gang apart. Arthur had to handle this quietly

"We'll talk to Charles together," he said as they were embarking onto a small road leading to a homestead. "When we get to camp."

Arya smiled tightly, nodding her thanks.

The homestead was a two-story house falling to pieces. There was a barn in the back and a little shed on the side. It was probably a decoy. Arthur didn't care.

The man they sold the oil to was a tall feller with broad shoulders and a heavy pocket. He paid seven hundred dollars for each oil wagon and one hundred for all the trouble. Arthur pocketed the cash in his satchel. He freed the horses from the wagon, and each embarked bareback on their chosen mount.

Arya seemed tight-lipped as she embarked.

"It'll be fine," Arthur drawled as he got near her.

She nodded curtly and followed him into the setting sun. The sky was a painted orange, like vagabond brush wipes across pastel blue. Animals scattered away from them as all four rode hard, in silence, towards camp. The wind was fresh, getting colder the more the sky darkened. Stars were beginning to twinkle dimly. The moon was milky in the sky as they trotted up the small path to camp, the sound of laughter dribbling out from the trees.

"Someone started a party," John drawled from behind.

"It's probably Sean," Arthur admitted.

There was, admittedly, a party at the camp. As the four horsemen hitched their rides, Arya could hear music and singing, smell hard liquor, and see the flames of a fire between the tents. Approaching the raucus, she saw the gang gathered around high flames, alcohol being passed between outstretched hands, and Javier playing the guitar from his spot on a laid out poncho.

"Ah!" came a drawling voice. "Come celebrate!" It was the kid, Sean, waddling his way towards Arthur and Arya.

"Sean, this is Arya," Arthur said almost timidly.

Sean's eyes, a marshy green, scanned over the young woman. "I've heard she was all teeth," he said with a quip, his accent thick from liquor. He offered her a dark bottle. "A drink, m'lady?"

Arya winced when she caught a whiff of the drink. "No thanks," she mumbled. "I'll take my money though, Arthur."

Arthur seemed to be taken aback by that, but he nonetheless drove out the huge stacks from his satchel.

"I'll give you five hundred," he drawled. "I'll take five. The rest I'll give to the camp and the ones who came out to fight today can take their cut."

Arya didn't mind it at all. Five hundred dollars was a hell of a lot of money. She took the money and drifted off to her tent in a hurry to change out of her confining clothes. She'd spent almost a week in heavy gowns and tight corsets. She was dying to peel everything off and get into trousers and a union shirt.

After doing just that in her shared tent with Sadie, she packed her former outfit into the trunk by her bed roll. She sat down on the top of it, trying to decompress. Her fingers skimmed over her hands until she touched something warm and metallic.

The ring.

The false wedding ring that tethered her to Arthur. She stared at it for a while, her cheeks reddening, memories filtering in and out of her mind. A warm feeling crept into her belly and she cursed, getting to her feet. Opening the trunk, she fished out a loose string, took off the ring, and slipped the string through the ring. Then she tied it to her neck and dumped the newly made necklace under her black union shirt.

She was starving by that time, having spent the entire day riding. Trying to sneak to Pearson's wagon to get a bowl of stew, Arya caught sight of the growing party. Around a fire, the entire gang was gathered. Abigail and John were intertwined on a log next to Karen. Behind them, Dutch and Molly were dancing, glued to each other like two magnets. On the ground, singing a melodic tune, was Javier with his beloved guitar.

Arya grabbed a bowl of stew and stood in the shadows of the camp, watching the redheaded kid, Sean, blabber away to Tilly and Mary-Beth. Lenny and Charles sat in front of the fire, sipping on brown bottles of liquor, deep in conversation. Bill was trying to woo Karen, but the latter wasn't having any of it tonight.

"Arya!" It was Grimshaw, a rare grin on her face. She was standing behind Uncle and Pearson, waving over the young woman with an eager expression.

Arya's eyes searched the party for Arthur, finding him a ways off in the shadows, his head tipped towards Hosea.

The young lady took a mouthful of the rest of her stew and went to join the party. She told herself just a few minutes wouldn't hurt, and then she'd settle for the night.

Sadie made space on a log for Arya to sit. Arthur came across the fire and sat diagonally from her, beside Karen. Brown liquor bottles were passed and as soon as Arya put whiskey into her mouth, the world became a little lighter.

Javier entertained the group with his songs. Arya knew some and sang along, the liquor in her veins turning her stoic expression into lazy smiles. The guitar riffs sent chills down her spine, or maybe that was the chilly wind. Whatever it was, the liquor was numbing it. Sadie sang loud and proud, Karen began dancing, and Sean began telling stories.

By the strike of midnight, Dutch and his belle went off to his tent. Grimshaw, Uncle, and Pearson were gone. Tilly and Mary-Beth had retired. Little Jack was sound asleep in his parents' tent.

"I must retire the guitar for the night," Javier confessed in a drunken tone. He wobbled onto his feet just as everyone expressed their disappointment with low oohs and ahs.

"Okay then!" Sean drawled as he stood, his hat tumbling to the ground. Red hair reflected the flames and he gave the remaining people a wicked grin. "Let's play some games."

"I ain't shootin' another apple off your head, kid," Karen grumbled, fixing the boy a side glance.

That earned a laugh from the older gang members. Arya guessed she wasn't part of their group when Sean almost died.

"No, no," Sean quipped. "I mean… let's play a game like we used to before. For old time's sake!"

"Alright!" John drawled. "Let him have his fun." Then he gave Abigail a smirk and the young woman giggled into his shoulder.

Arya felt warmth spread into her belly as Sean began the game. Maybe it was the alcohol in her system or the fact that Arthur kept shooting glances at her from under the rim of his hat. She didn't know. She didn't care.

Sean's game was simple. He would spin in a circle, dangerously close to the fire, and point at a random person. He'd ask a random question from the top of his head, and you could either answer it or take a swing of whatever you were drinking.

"Let's start very simply!" Sean announced. He spun on his toes and, naturally, pointed at Arya. She stared back at him with a glazed expression, the whiskey working wonders for her shyness. "Favorite color, princess."

Arya smirked. "Green."

Sean, satisfied, spun and landed on Karen. "Oh, this should be good," Sadie grumbled.

"How many men this year alone, Karen," Sean asked in a serious tone. The gang erupted in laughter, but the accused woman was not even phased.

"More men than women," Karen answered truthfully, showing us her pearly whites.

Sean laughed but carried on, spinning like a drunken fool. His coat tails were nearing the flames and Arya didn't know if she was in the right headspace to help him if he caught on fire.

"Abigail!" the redhead boy declared. "What does John do that absolutely bothers you?"

Abigail grinned, but John went crimson from neck to ears. "Oh, well," the girl perched on his knees drawled. "He does this thing when we – "

"Abigail!" John exclaimed, covering her mouth with his good hand.

"Come on!" Sean insisted. "Tell us, lass!"

"No," John grumbled. Then he picked up his bottle and pressed it to his wife's lips. "She's goin' to drink instead."

Sean laughed in a way that lead the group to know he knew exactly what was about to be said. But instead of spilling, Sean spun again in a rabid circle, his coattails skimming the fire and smoking.

"Arthur!" Sean exclaimed, the look on his face devious. "Oh, Arthur. Tell me. No woman to break down that tough guy act of yours?"

Arya was suddenly very grateful for the darkness around them, for her cheeks burned and turned crimson. She tried not to look too closely at Arthur's reaction, her eyes drunkenly dodging from him. She took a mean swig of her bottle, the whiskey searing her throat.

"Nah," Arthur drawled. "And I'll show you tough guy, kid. Get over here."

"Ooh," Sean feigned, rolling his eyes. "Ain't scared of you, lad."

"You should be."

Arya's heart hammered heavily against her rib cage. She tried to keep her eyes down to the grass, the liquor burning her tongue.

"Don't worry," Sadie whispered into her ear. "I see the way he looks at you."

When Arya looked up to the blonde woman, the latter was smiling knowingly, blue eyes sparkling in the fire.

"Sadie!" Sean yelled. "Or shall I say, dear Mrs. Adler."

"Do your best!" the woman laughed.

"Would a woman like you warm up to a lonesome little man like me?" Sean asked, spreading his arms out before her.

Sadie yelped in laughter. "Never in a million years, boy!"

"And you, dear little Arya?" Sean tried, lower lip pouted.

Arya frowned. "Little?" she asked. "No way!"

"What?" Sean smiled. "Never had an Irishman?"

"No."

Sean's head tilted, nose wrinkling like a dog catching a scent. "Ever wanted one?"

Arya frowned deeper. "No."

Sean seemed puzzled, and frankly, Arya didn't know why. And yet the boy fell a step back, chin jutted out. He looked down at her from the length of his nose, then huffed and took a sip.

"Arya?" he asked, his tone dangerous, malicious. "Are you… are you a virgin?"

This time, the heat spreading in her chest and all across her face was not the liquor. It was embarrassment. It was rage. She wanted to collapse in on herself and punch Sean straight across the jaw all at once.

"I – I… B…" There were no words able to leave her lips, able to justify the reason behind the fact that yes, she was a virgin.

Sean's face lit up. "You are?"

Arya opened her mouth to say something, but Arthur stood up and bolted for the tree line, bringing her gaze to follow.

"I just… I – I didn't have any time…" was all that came from her mouth, her mind trying to run after Arthur.

The fire was suddenly on her cheeks and in her heart.

"How?" Sean asked. "You're like, what? Twenty- five?"

"Twenty-four," she mumbled.

"How?" he reiterated.

The heat in Arya's cheeks came to such a point where she would have gladly went back to the winter wilderness of the mountains.

She got to her feet, unaware of the people around her staring, open-mouthed. Sean was going on about something or another. Karen was laughing her head off. Sadie was trying to calm everybody down.

Arya turned on her heels and followed Arthur's tracks. She was more intent on figuring out where he was than on punching Sean across the jaw.

By the time she hit the tree line, the distant sound of laughter was like a bad dream. Her cheeks were still hot, but the freshness of the air was cooling her skin. Her breaths were fanning in white clouds before her mouth as she searched the darkness for Arthur.

She didn't know why she was searching for him. She didn't know why she wished to see him, ask him why he had left the party in such a haste.

He was standing in the darkness alone, lighting a cigarette. Arya was able to find him because the orange tip of his smoke was like a beacon.

He heard her approaching, turned and grunted. The night seemed to repulse around him, a halo of purple shadows clinging to him like moss on a tree.

There was tension in his neck, pulsing in his shoulders as he turned to face her. Arya's eyes, adjusted in the dark, saw the tight expression on his face.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she licked her lips and took a few steps forward. "Arthur," she breathed.

His eyes clung to hers for a second too long before he took a long drag of his cigarette. "You didn't tell me," he said, his voice rough.

Arya knew immediately what he was referring to. "I didn't think it was important."

His eyes snapped up, angry blue meeting vast blackness. His cigarette met the ground with a violent throw. He took a dangerous step towards her. "You didn't think it was important?" he growled behind clenched teeth. Arya's hands balled into fists. "We was about to… about to… and you're… you're a virgin!"

"It's not important to me," Arya answered, looking up at him in the darkness of the night, almost imploring him.

Arthur shook his head. "I was about to take that from you," he growled. "Don't you think I oughtta know?"

Arya's eyebrows furrowed. "No."

"Unbelievable," he grunted, stepping back with a vicious shake of his head.

"Why is this so bad for you?" she asked tentatively. "It's not important to me."

"It is for me, Arya," he muttered. "You don't deserve… you don't deserve to have your first time with a man like me. I am no honourable man. I am no gentleman."

"Even though all of that is untrue," she answered, "I didn't ask that of you. I didn't ask for you to treat me like I'm made of glass."

He looked up at her as if she wasn't understanding a thing he was trying to say. "You deserve a gentle touch, don't you see?" he asked.

She took a step forward and pushed him hard in the chest. "I don't _want_ gentle," she returned. "I'm not a doll made of porcelain." She took another step and shoved him once more. "I wasn't asking you to bring me under the stars with candles on a bed of roses. At the hotel in Valentine, all I wanted was you. Can't _you_ see?" She shoved him one more time for good measure.

He stepped back from her blows, catching her hands in his. "I'm no good man, Arya," he muttered, defeated. "And just thinkin' that the first time you lay with a man is with a man like me I – I feel like you deserve better."

She clasped his hands harshly. Anger rose under her skin like a tsunamic wave. "I don't want better," she growled. "I want you. In all your dishonorable glory that you insist on having."

He sighed heavily, breaking free from her grasp to slide his hands along her jaw, tilting her head towards his. "It's so impossible to stay away from you," he murmured. "I try to protect you. I lured you in, I know, I'm sorry. I'm just afraid to hurt you."

"I'm not made of glass, Arthur," she answered, searching his blue gaze.

He looked into her eyes. "No, but you're not unbreakable."

Arya felt the bitterness of sadness bubble in her chest, seething in her belly. She pulled away from him, fighting the rise of tears, but more so fighting the urge to hit him. Rejection hurt when the person didn't like you, but she knew Arthur harbored the same feelings as she did for him. And yet, just because he saw himself as dark and ugly as the devil, he was keeping himself from her.

She jutted her chin in that rebellious way of hers, jaw set, fists clenched. "I thought the road to revenge was lonely," she said, remembering why exactly she'd even met Arthur. "But it seems that the only way a man is lonely is if he decides to be."

She didn't wait for him to answer. She didn't want him to. Leaving him behind in the cold darkness of the woods, she marched her way back into camp with a new anger harbored in her heart.


	19. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: DARK THUNDER

**Hello. Going a bit AU from here on out. Thank you to everyone who left a review, and shoutout to those who favorited and followed!**

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: DARK THUNDER

 _Even if I knew you'd be the one that got away_  
 _I'd still go back and get you_  
 _Even if I knew you'd be my best and worst mistake_  
 _Oh, I'd still make it with you_  
 _Over and over, again and again_

John's hand had indeed mended very well in the last week. The skin had gone from raw to scarring, and his nerve damage did not seem out of hand. Arya had been afraid that the young man would forever be handicapped, but as she took out the stitches with a pair of scissors and wooden tweezers, he hissed with every movement.

"It would seem like you have recovered some of the sensation in your hand," Arya said, looking up at John with a smile.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his afflicted hand on a stool. Arya sat before him, her hands sanitized with whiskey, John's wound smelling of the same liquor. Beside them, standing very quietly, was Abigail.

"Will he fully recover?" she asked, her voice a small shrill.

Arya hid her wince before shrugging. "I will have to perform a few tests," she admitted. "I'm just going to remove every stitch for now."

John gave the caramel-haired self-proclaimed doctor a side smile.

The day had started rather roughly for Arya. She woke up in her tent, tears crusted in the corner of her eyes. The bedroll next to hers was empty. It was cold, and there was nothing and no one to keep her warm. She'd been instantly reminded of the warmth of Arthur's body next to hers in the Valentine hotel bed; how his hand had stayed intertwined with hers all night.

Sitting in the cold damp air of her tent that morning, her thoughts were a dangerous abyss.

She'd busied herself quite quickly when she saw Arthur hanging by the fire. His eyes had followed her, feeling like two cigarette burns at the back of her head. The morning had risen purple and pink on the horizon, and after breakfast, she set out to find John.

The last stitch came out swiftly, bringing with it a bubble of blood, and John sighed in relief. "Last one," Arya said with a chuckle.

The young woman wiped the blood with fresh cloth, washed the wound with warm water, and pat it dry with dry cloth. As she wrapped the wound into a fresh hand-made gauze, she said, "Continue to wash it everyday like I showed you. Continue to be on the look out for any abnormalities."

"Like what?" John asked in his gruff voice.

"Blood-red skin," the girl answered in a monotone voice, like she was counting sheep. "Darkening skin. Puss. Fever. Chills. Nausea. A-"

"Okay, I get it," he grumbled.

"The skin should be healed fairly soon," Arya continued. "I'll be back to you in a week to figure out how we will proceed with therapy."

"Therapy?" Abigail asked as if in horror.

Arya caught herself and looked up at the woman with an uneasy smile. "Physical, yes," she coughed. "I'll bring a ball and see what he feels and doesn't feel. We'll go from there."

John seemed uncomfortable with the idea, but Abigail nodded, hands on hips, and said, "Sure will, doctor."

Arya's shoulders suddenly felt heavy, like someone draped a stone-weighted sheet over her back. Tingles sprang from her neck to her spine, gliding down her back slowly.

Somewhere, she heard her brother, the voice of a man she could no longer see clearly in her mind's eye. He used to call her Doctor A whenever she'd fix whatever wound he came back with. She tried not to picture him then, bleeding out on Germanotta's kitchen floor, unsavable, his eyes blank and lifeless. But the image came as vivid as if it was happening in the present. She could not remember his face for the life of her, all the little details she knew were there. And yet she could remember exactly what he looked like the day she couldn't save him.

"I need to tell you somethin'," Abigail said, breaking through Arya's torment. The latter looked up with pinched lips, busying herself by throwing the soiled cloth in the bucket of water at her feet.

"I'm – uh…" Abigail hesitated. "I'm pregnant."

Arya looked up sharply, blinked a few times, opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came.

"I know," Abigail said, looking quickly back to her husband. "We said we'd be careful, but I guess… I guess we wasn't."

"Congratulations?" Arya asked in her confusion. Abigail smiled and nodded frantically. "Okay, yes, congratulations!"

John was still sitting, so Arya just tapped him on the shoulder. To Abigail she gave a gentle hug.

"I'd like it very much if you could be my doctor, Arya," Abigail said with a shy smile.

Arya picked up the bucket and smiled tightly. "Of course I will be." But there was something tight in her chest, squeezing, begging to come out. "How far along are you?" she almost choked out.

"Well, I'd say three months, maybe?" Abigail answered, looking quizzically between her husband and the young woman.

"When have you last menstruated?" asked Arya.

John got up with a grunt, pretending to be looking for something, as he grumbled, "I'm going to go find somethin' to do."

When the man was gone, Abigail giggled. "The last time I bled was around three months ago."

Nodding, Arya packed her things, which consisted of cloth, scissors, wooden tweezers, and a bottle of whiskey. "I'll keep watch over you," she said absentmindedly, the knot in her chest constricting. "Come see me if you feel anything abnormal, yes?"

"Oh, thank you!" Abigail gushed, her hands to her chest in prayer. "You're a gift!"

Arya shook her head, but accepted the compliment.

"No wonder Arthur is so taken with you!"

Arya's chest tightened even more that she had to cough to let off some pressure. Heat spread in her belly, treacherously, and up to her cheeks.

If anything, Arthur was trying to push her away, and she was letting him. But she was not about to confide such things to Abigail, not when Arya had no idea what to do about the situation.

"He isn't." That was the only possible answer to come out of the young woman's lips.

Abigail frowned. "Hell he is," she scolded, hands on hips like Arya had seen her do to Jack sometimes. "He won't stop gawkin' at you, and ever since the pair of ya came back from Valentine, there's been a noticeable difference."

Arya went from crimson to white in an instant. Noticeable?

Abigail huffed and waved off her expression. "Not that the men have noticed, because, when do they ever notice anythin'?" she sighed. "I've noticed it. I know Mary-Beth and Molly have seen it."

Sadie too.

Arya sighed, glazing her eyes. "Abigail," she said slowly. "Thank you for your concerns, but I'm fine. Arthur and I are friends." She had to admit that saying that left a sour taste in her mouth, a bitter feeling in her mind, and a tight knot in her stomach. It hurt, and she wasn't about to tell herself it didn't.

She all but scrambled out of the tent, feeling queasy and angry all at once. Arya had never been the sentimental type in a romantic way. She had always had a head on her shoulders, and when young men came waltzing into her way, or asking Germanotta for her hand, Arya had always refused. Although her mistress, Germanotta, had called her an old maid, Arya had not been deterred. She'd had a goal back then. She still had one now.

Arthur was fastening his tent to the rear end of his horse when Arya crossed the grounds. She tried not to notice the way his head swiveled, but his intensity was always so hard to ignore.

He was going away for while, it seemed. A heated pinch tightened in her chest as she could only imagine why the gunslinger was leaving camp. But she resolved not to let it affect her. Whatever the reason behind Arthur's departure, she still had a few plans of her own.

She saw Charles sitting at a table, looking contently at his knives, washing and sharpening them. His midnight hair was swept back, exposing the chocolate color of his skin.

"Hey Charles," the young woman rasped, sitting at the table with him, dumping all her stuff on the wood.

The man looked up at her in surprise. "Hey."

"Can I ask you something?" she asked. Charles looked at her sideways, his eyes glancing from her face to her hands rather quickly. To reassure him, she said, "It's about the mission we just did."

"Oh, I took my share of the money, nothing more," he drawled.

Arya laughed. "No not that." Then her face went serious, and the look she gave around camp seemed to draw in the man sitting across from her.

"What then?" he asked. His palms pressed against the wood of the table, leaning in slightly.

"I think we should take a ride or something," the girl proposed. "I don't want anyone overhearing this."

Charles looked at her with narrowed eyes, but then he got to his feet and quietly made his way to the black and white steed that was his. Arya followed behind, leaving her medical accessories by the health supply wagon. Rory, her mount, grumbled and huffed as Arya straddled her.

Charles led them out through the small path. Arya saw that Arthur had left, and somewhere in her chest, a burning began that she desperately wanted to ignore but couldn't.

"We can head east of Valentine, up by a ridge I know," proposed Charles.

"Sure thing."

They rode in the small roads to avoid any patrols. After their stunt in Valentine, Arya and Arthur were sure to have their faces plastered all over Valentine. Even if the entire caravan they'd rode with had been shot dead, the women Arya left behind sure told their tales about Casey and Emily Brown.

The memory of their time in Valentine made the burning behind her ribs stronger. The young woman desperately tried to ignore the subtle ache, but just like everything else in her life, the memory of Arthur just didn't want to leave her alone.

"It's right up here," Charles said, pointing to the ridge ahead. Arya could see the planes of New Hanover, the sloping and dipping valleys. The sun was hot and bright above, which made her sweat right through her black shirt.

They jumped off their horses and sat by the ridge, legs dangling over the edge. Charles took out a flask of water and passed it to the young woman.

After a sip, she said, "It's not really easy what I'm about to tell you."

Charles grunted in response.

"It's been bugging me ever since we stole the oil from Cornwall and Crawford," she admitted, looking over the ridge at a small group of riders. She didn't dare look beside her at a man she could barely call a friend. Nervousness made the tips of her fingers begin to tremble. "And I know that I'm saying something incredibly risky, but I – "

"Someone told the O'Driscolls," Charles interrupted. Arya looked at him in surprise, delicate eyebrows raised. Charles nodded. "It's as obvious as daylight. I think Dutch noticed it too."

"They came in with fifteen or so men," Arya continued, just to make sure her and Charles were on the same wavelength. "It was clearly a planned attack."

Charles looked out pensively, puckering his mouth in thought. "Be careful what you ask next," he warned. "Dutch will not like being accused by a woman only with us for a few months."

Arya frowned deeply. "You think Dutch did this?" she asked.

"No," Charles answered. "He hates Colm as much as everybody else."

 _Not as much as me_ , thought Arya.

"Tell me who was there when you told Dutch the plan," she asked, feeling as if the answer was right on the tip of her tongue, out of reach.

Charles frowned in thought, taking a small sip of water. "Everyone," he replied with a shrug. "Everyone that came out to fight. I mean… wait. Micah was there."

Arya's interest peeked and she sat straighter. "Micah?" she reiterated. "And where did he go off to when we attacked the caravan?"

Charles shook his head, as if trying to remember. "He asked Dutch if he could do something in Saint-Denis," he answered, eyes narrowed. "I couldn't really make it out over Sean's loud questions, but it had something to do in Saint-Denis. Dutch told him he could go."

Arya's mouth hung ajar. She knew it was Micah. It had to be. "But did he come back to camp with something for Dutch?" she asked. When Charles turned and frowned, she added, "When we saved him in Strawberry, he said he wouldn't come back to camp unless he had something for Dutch."

"Like a dog," Charles grumbled. Then he sighed, "No, I don't believe he had anything of value for Dutch. He only had that thing in Saint-Denis."

Arya bit the side of her lip in contemplation. "I need to find out what that was."

"Why?" Charles grumbled.

Arya's heart picked up. She knew she was treading on thin ice – dangerous grounds – but she wanted to go through with this. "Because if Micah told Colm where to find most of the Van Der Linde gang and to steal most of our profit, then he's a traitor. And he can lead us to the O'Driscolls."

"And you want Colm dead as much as all of us," the man grumbled. Then he sighed and waggled his legs. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Arya sighed too and looked out at the hot horizon. "I'm going to play it low, I guess," she said. "I just… I got attached to the bunch of you. I'd hate to see anything happen."

Charles huffed a laugh and clapped the girl on the shoulder. "Sentimental now, are we, Arya?"

"Shut up."

"Here's what we can do," he said then, and when Arya turned to him, he was looking at her seriously. "I'll go to Saint-Denis and see what Micah is up to. Stay in and around camp, there's surely something you can overhear."

Arya's face slackened. "You're giving me the easy job," she deadpanned. "I can handle myself in Saint-Denis."

Charles smiled. "You need to gain Dutch's trust," he said in a mischievous tone. "That's not as easy as it seems. Gaining his ear and his respect might just give us protection if we come accusing his delegates."

Nodding, Arya mulled it over. "Makes sense." After a beat, she added, "I know if you talk to Arthur, he'll be on our side. He doesn't like Micah."

"John either," recited Charles.

"That means we have Abigail on our side too."

"Sean can be persuaded," Charles added. "He's never liked Micah that much."

Arya nodded and got to her feet. "Thank you, Charles," she said sincerely. "Thank you for believing me. And helping me."

Getting to his feet, Charles grumbled and shook the dust off his shoulders. "Ah, well," he grunted, "there's nothing more I'd like than to see Micah on his way. But we have to do this right."

"I know," she answered, nodding.

Arya's heart pounded as she watched Charles riding off towards Saint-Denis. Something was telling her that this would all turn out horribly bad, but there was a memory trying to push its way through her thoughts. A memory of a photograph, black and white. Men and women gathered before a caravan, stone-faced. A little boy sitting on the burnt grass. On the corners of the photograph, a date. The corners were curling in slowly, like smoke, twirling in on themselves with age.

Even if she had a feeling everything would end badly, she also knew they would. They always did.

* * *

Dutch stared up at her from under the rim of his hat, dark brows pulled forward in contemplation.

"You want to set up a doctor's office beside the health wagon?" he asked.

Arya nodded quickly. "I'm going to turn it into a tent where I can receive my… my patients," she said timidly. On purpose, she'd worn her hair down around her shoulders and pinched her cheeks red this morning. She'd put on one of Sadie's yellow blouses to make her eyes standout. And she knew most men couldn't resist a vulnerable woman, so when Dutch began to bolster, she turned her eyebrows upward and pouted her lips.

"Ah," he drawled, standing from his cot. Arya stood a ways in, feeling safe with the tent flaps opened. "Ask Grimshaw to help you set up. I'm glad we have a doctor with us now." He gave her a tight smile, but behind those upturned eyes was a look of viciousness she couldn't place. A challenge. As if he knew what she was trying to do.

After Charles left for Saint-Denis yesterday, Arya had come back to camp and played it low. She did her chores with Pearson and sewed up most of Bill's torn clothing. Then she went to bed early, resolved to starting her plan in the morning.

A little birdie had once told her Dutch values most of all utility. And since she had a particular set of skills people in camp didn't, she decided to use that to her advantage.

But Dutch wasn't an idiot, and Arya knew that. The darkness lurking behind his smile and tilted head swam in her mind all day as she set up the doctor's tent with Grimshaw. That palpable bite, as if he'd been testing the waters, kept making the skin on her arms bubble with goosebumps.

"I heard you were settin' up a doctor's tent."

Arya turned, sweat on her brow. There stood Hosea with a huge smile on his face, sincerity written all over his features.

"Someone's got to do it," the girl answered.

Hosea took a step forward and produced a stethoscope from behind him, handing it over to the girl. "Here," he said. "Found this in Valentine a while back. Thought you'd have more use of it than me."

Arya smiled, a faraway look in her eyes.

"What?" asked Hosea.

Arya stared a bit more at the tool. Then she looked up at Hosea and said, "Oh, nothing."

"Your only patient is out for now, anyway," Hosea joked, readjusting the flaps of his long coat.

Arya frowned. "Who?"

"John," Hosea said. "He left. Arthur and him went to steal some oil to stop a train."

Arya's hands went slack and the stethoscope clattered to the ground. A burning feeling started in her chest and pushed its way up her throat. "They did what?" she growled.

Hosea's brows shot up and his hands came up in defense. "They left yesterday," he answered. "I thought you knew."

Of course, they hadn't told her. John was injured, and they knew that Arya would not allow him to go off on a mission with a healing hand. She'd tell Abigail, who'd raise heaven and hell to make John stay in camp.

Arya picked up the dropped device in a flurry of anger, her cheeks hot. She turned on her heels and headed into the tent, telling Grimshaw to keep unpacking and setting up. Then the young woman packed a small satchel with clean cloth, a bottle of alcohol, medicine, and a flask of water. She strapped her holster to her waist, put a knife at her thigh, and hauled a rifle across her back.

Stomping out of the tent, Grimshaw hollered, "Where do you think you're going?"

Arya was close to slapping the older woman, but instead chose to breathe through her nose. "I'm going to bring back a bunch of idiots," she shouted over her shoulder. Then, to Hosea, who still stood timidly before the tent, she asked, "Where?"

Hosea put a hand behind his neck, rubbing anxiously. "Just north of Heartland Oil Fields."

Arya nodded and all but jogged towards her mount. She was furious. Arthur's face was certainly plastered all over New Hanover, which meant patrols were out looking for him. Her face was most certainly beside his. Why wasn't he keeping his head low until the Valentine thing blew over? Why was he rushing right into another mission?

And John, injured and onehanded, was not fit to fight anyone.

Arya's horse all but sprinted out of Horseshoe Overlook, dirt picking up at the back of her hooves. The sun was hidden behind clouds, rain heavy on the air as Arya zipped through the trees and out into the flatlands before her. If she caught up to them quick enough, she could stop it all from happening. Stop the idiots from either being murdered or taken in custody.

She saw the oil fields up ahead. Strong metallic structures jutted out from the ground like broken black teeth in a smoker's mouth. The sound of metallic scrapes echoed in the valley, shouts of workers drawling up to her ears as she put Rory into a trot.

One hand on the reins, the other on her pistol, she surveyed the simmering horizon. Nothing. Up in the valley she saw nothing alarming, no moving figure to alert her. She was beginning to despair, rearing Rory left and right, swiveling her head like a crazy chicken.

And then she saw movement. Someone was creeping down the valley slope, slowly. He wore a black hat and a black blouse over broad shoulders.

Definitely Arthur.

Arya spurred Rory on, careful to avoid any proximity to the oil field. Her heart sped violently in her chest, thumping and throbbing in her throat. The closer she got, the clearer Arthur became, as if clearing from a fog. Up ahead, storm clouds had gathered fast, darkening the atmosphere as she reared up near Arthur. He stood straight, looking at her, following her with his eyes. She turned in circles around him, breathless, observing the controlled look on his features.

"Where's John?" she asked.

"Up there," Arthur answered in a low tone, jutting his chin to the top of the valley.

"Is he hurt?"

"No."

Arya slid down from her horse, feeling both relieved and angered. "You're an idiot, Arthur Morgan."

He sighed, open-mouthed. "Excuse me?" His voice was low, gruff, and offended.

"You bring an injured man on a dangerous mission," she accused, pointing at him. "You risk being caught by bounty hunters or the law because your face is certainly plastered everywhere after our stunt in Valentine. Why didn't you just keep your head low and go hunting for two weeks?" By now, she'd taken a few steps his way, her anger dragging her to him.

"I'm bein' careful," he all but growled back. The tension in his shoulders was visible, his empty hands in fists by his sides.

"Oh, really?" she demanded sarcastically. "You're about to go in there alone to face God knows how many men with a onehanded, half-eyed racoon up in the trees as cover!"

Arthur threw up his hands as if he just couldn't believe what was being said. "We've done this before, John and I!" he shouted.

"But this time it's just you going in," she answered lowly. Something sparked in her chest, hurting behind her ribs.

"Yes."

"Arthur, I'm not leaving until you promise me you're not going in there," she deadpanned, standing feet shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over her chest. "I'm not leaving until John rides back home."

"Arya…" Arthur whispered.

Above, thunder boomed, lightning splitting the sky momentarily. Arthur's features lit up for a few moments, brightening the expression of concern on his face.

"I'm not saying you can't do this," she said quietly. "Just don't do this now. Wait until John is healed. Wait until the bounty on our heads is lifted."

"Arya."

Her name on his lips sent shivers down her spine, and not because of the quick decline in temperature. The way the letters formed on his lips, molded on his mouth, reminded her of all the ways his mouth had made her skin feel on fire. All the ways his body had been so close to hers, his hands touching almost every inch.

She snapped out of it by the booming of thunder overhead.

"I said what I said," she gritted. "Don't be an idiot."

Arthur seemed to think about it. The tension in his shoulders eased, his hands slackened. The expression of perpetual anguish on his features seemed to soften.

"Okay," he murmured.

He started back up the slope of the valley, broad shoulders swinging, the glint of his bullet belt across his chest catching her eye. When he came inches beside her, he stopped. She looked at him, searching the shadows cast by his hat to see if she could find any emotion worth latching onto. But then he continued his walk.

Arya turned on her heels to face his retreating form. "Am I a fool to think you'll stay out of trouble for now?" she asked.

The gunslinger stopped in his tracks, turned his head, eyes towards the oil field. She saw the muscle jumping in his neck, the set of his jaw, the flex of his hands. "No," he answered bluntly in that gruff voice of his.

Arya watched him climb back up the valley, rain starting to drizzle, seeping through her blouse, damping her hair. When Arthur had vanished in the dim treeline, she climbed back onto her horse.

No hoofbeats followed her. It was only the sound of her horse's hooves on the wet ground, alone on the way back home.


	20. CHAPTER NINETEEN: WAY DOWN WE GO

**I should be studying for my Bio final this week but I wrote this instead. Thank you for the wonderful reviews, and thanks again for sticking with me still!**

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CHAPTER NINETEEN: WAY DOWN WE GO

 _I can't count the times_  
 _I almost said what's on my mind_  
 _But I didn't_  
 _Just the other day_  
 _I wrote down all the things I'd say_  
 _But I couldn't_  
 _I just couldn't_

One month passed without any trouble. The gang was being very low profile; avoiding public appearances and very rarely leaving camp. Per Dutch's orders, the gang was to limit gun use in and around towns, and to prevent at all cost to be taken by the law. Dutch was planning to take the camp elsewhere, out of the Valentine area, to prevent anyone getting caught. Especially with the stunt pulled in Valentine, the gang had to remain inconspicuous.

After Arya implored Arthur to stop being a fucking fool, Arthur left. John came back and took up some of Arya's physical therapy with a brown little ball. Even though she knew John had seen the ordeal between Arthur and her, they didn't talk about it.

Abigail came in and Arya gave her ginger for nausea.

Arya helped Sean with his aim.

She mended almost all of Bill's clothing.

She switched Karen's whiskey flask for water.

She sat down and learned maps, arithmetic, and scamming tactics with Hosea.

She read to little Jack.

She tried so hard not to think about where Arthur might be, or what he was doing. With who.

All of that didn't matter because he rode back into camp on a drizzling morning. Arya was sitting on the health supply wagon, her boots damp, hair in a thick braid down her back. Sipping on her coffee, she saw Arthur ride up the small slope and to the hitching post. She watched him slip off his mount and trudge through the misty ground. She felt safe behind the curtain of rain, watching with ink drop eyes as the man vanished into his tent.

She was surprised by the subtle burning in her belly, how it was watered down to a dull ache instead of a raging fire.

Before she knew it, the camp had woken up and gathered around the morning stew. Karen carried in her water flask. Bill was wearing all his mended clothes.

Arya joined and ate a bowl. Jack came up to her and tugged onto the long sleeve of her blue blouse.

"Morning Jack," she said, crouching to his eye level.

The little boy wore a black coat because of the fresh morning and a white shirt. His little boots shone with the morning dew.

"Wanna go fishin' with me?" he asked, little eyes searching her face almost frantically.

"Why not your parents?" she returned, smiling.

He touched his lumpy little hand to her cheek. "Daddy has one hand, remember?"

She laughed. "And your mom?"

"Mama don't like fishin'."

She smiled, fond of the little boy's cleverness. "Alright, but I don't have a rod, Jack."

"That's okay," he answered, pinching her chin as if examining her. "I have one."

"So do I."

Arya snapped her eyes up over Jack's head. Arthur stood with his thumbs under his belt buckle, a shy smile on his face. The grey drizzle seemed to drip from everywhere on him. His hat glistened; his boots shined.

"Hi." This to her.

"Hi," she replied, still crouched before the little boy, who was swinging his shoulders back and forth dramatically.

"Okay, can we go now?" he asked in that little boyish voice.

Arthur chuckled, dropping his burning gaze down to the boy. "Alright, little man," he laughed. "Run along now and get your rod."

"Yes, uncle Arthur." Then the little boy ran with his little legs. Arya watched him go, smiling to herself.

Arya rose to her feet, looking from Arthur to the fire and back. Something stirred in her belly, being in close proximity to him again.

"Where – " she started.

"I'm – "

They stared at each other. Arthur's mouth rose in the corner, creasing the soft skin above the start of his stubble. Then he sighed, "I'm sorry."

She licked her lips, going from foot to foot. "Where have you been?" she asked.

"Around."

"That's not an answer," she returned in a soft voice.

He sighed heavily, looking around nervously. The water droplets flew from the rim of his hat. "I had to get away for a while."

She nodded. "You stayed out of trouble?"

The look he gave her sent butterflies washing across her belly. Right then, she was taken back to that moment in the Valentine hotel, when they'd been spying on the investors. When he was pushed up against her in the crammed space between the wall and the stairs. When she could see every speckle on his face, every beauty mark, and the wash of reddened skin on his nose.

"Yes." And he smiled so effortlessly that it made the young woman smile back as well.

Arya followed Arthur on her horse, the man having taken the little boy on his saddle. Jack wanted to ride fast, so they sprinted down the small path to the river bend. He laughed and giggled, enjoying the waving motion of Arthur's mount. Even Arya was smiling to herself, listening to the little lad spurring on the horse.

The morning had fully risen by the time Arthur stopped the horses by the riverside. Arya looked around, crisp cool air puffing from her lips. The mountains stood like guardians, stark and sturdy against the greying sky. Mist and clouds still hovered at the tips of the mountains, but the water bend was quiet and still.

Rocks crunched under the young woman's boots as she made her way to Jack, crouching next to him as he set his little line.

"I'm usually very good at this," he mumbled to himself, soft eyebrows pulled into a frown. With all the mindful might of a young boy, he tried to figure out the problem that was his line. He declined anyone's help, but rather quickly figured it out.

"Here, Jack," Arthur said, giving the boy a smelly piece of cheese to use as bait. Arya scooted back onto a log and put her hands between her knees to keep them warm, watching as Arthur instructed the boy on fishing.

"You don't fish, Arya?" asked Jack.

"I do," she answered. "I just don't have a rod."

"That's a shame," Arthur drawled, looking out towards his line. "We get the biggest of 'em here." His broad shoulders were outlined by the shimmering river, glistering around him like a soft halo.

Arya had to admit she'd missed him. Not because he made her skin feel as if on fire. Not because he touched her in ways she'd never been before.

Because his presence was comforting. Just as much as they'd disliked each other all those months ago on top of the snowy mountain, now she couldn't lie and say she didn't like having him around.

Sitting at the fire for a month without him had felt heavy. Even though she'd been surrounded by a laughing Sean, a quirky Karen, and liquor, there had been something missing. She was still simmering with their last conversation on that grey afternoon in the slope of a mountain outside the oil fields. And yet right now, watching the small greying light reflect off the water, with Jack carefully reeling in, she could tuck her anger safely between her ribs.

The scrunch of rocks under boots made Arya's head snap to her left, where the tree line receded and where the road was just a ways above. Two men dressed in long coats and top hats were walking down the small incline. The one on the right had a long rifle slung over his shoulder like a prize. Arya's stomach twisted violently when she saw the second man had a golden badge over the red undershirt.

She stood, left hand on the knife at her thigh, heart racing like a horse. The skinny man with the badge frowned sarcastically, putting his hand out as if to stop her. "No need for that, madam," he drawled.

Arthur pivoted, letting the fishing rod clatter to the rocky shore. His eyes found Arya first, lips parted. When she jutted her chin to the boy, who was still trying to catch a fish, Arthur darted towards him. He stood in front of Jack, his broad shoulders completely shielding him from the intruders.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" Arthur asked, a tone of menace in his voice. Jack turned, leaving his rod to the current, and put one tiny hand onto Arthur's waist. "It's okay, boy," Arthur soothed, not taking his eyes off the law officers. "Stay behind me."

"Who are they?" Jack asked timidly.

"Glad you asked, boy!" the skinny officer chirped. They stopped a few feet from Arya, where she could see just how bad his skin was, and just how broad and buff the other officer was under his long coat. "I'm Agent Milton," he introduced himself, pointing with a gloved hand to his golden badge glistening on his breast. "And my associate here, Ross."

"Pinkertons," Arthur grumbled under his breath.

Arya's eyes kept close view of the rifle slung over Ross's shoulder. Her fingers inched closer and closer to the knife, but with her limited range, she doubted she had any chance to make it.

The sound of the river trickled in the back of her ears, over the roaring of her blood and the thundering of her heart.

"Fancy a fish, Mr. Morgan?" Milton went on, a smile on his face.

"What you want?" asked the gunslinger, his voice low and threatening.

A pause followed in which Milton watched Arthur from under his brows, surveying the threat. Ross kept twitching, his eyes jerking from Arya to Arthur and back.

"He yours?" asked Milton, jutting his chin to the boy hiding behind Arthur. "With your lady?" This time, Milton gave a tight but sharp smile to Arya. She sneered back.

"And how is that your business?" Arthur threw back, hands in fists. She could see the white of his knuckles and the veins protruding from the flesh of his forearms.

Milton sighed, then looked at Ross and chuckled. "There's a five thousand dollar fine for your head alone, Arthur Morgan." He said the name as if it was a joke, as if it could demean the cowboy in any way.

"Five thousand dollars?" Arthur drawled slowly. "For me?" Arya could see the wheels working in his head. How could he possibly get out of this alive and free? His eyes kept jerking from the gun to Arya's hand, which was now wrapped around the hilt of her knife.

She tapped her fingers onto the hilt for him, signalling that if he needed her, she'd go down swinging.

"Can I turn myself in?" Arthur husked, leaning forward.

Milton did not seem to like that answer. He crossed his arms, turning to his friend with a meaningful look. Ross let the rifle fall into his hands slowly, before tucking it into his shoulder and pointing it at Arthur. Arya's heart thrashed behind her ribs as she ripped her knife from its holster, holding it before her in a white-knuckled grip.

Milton put up a hand again and gave her a soft but sarcastic smile. "Oh, you must be…" Milton began, searching in his vest pocket until he retrieved a folded yellow paper. He took his time unfolding it, savoring the tension rattling the air. The river trickled. The wind whistled. Milton smiled at Arthur before turning the paper towards Arya.

Her face was drawn awkwardly, yet almost precisely.

"Mrs. Emily Brown?" Milton asked in a feigned tone. "We had one of the ladies you graciously left alive draw a picture of you. Yet I doubt that's your real name. Are you two even really married?"

"I _said_ ," Arthur bellowed, catching Milton's attention, "what do you want?"

Milton quickly folded up the paper and put it into his coat pocket. He put his hands behind his back and strolled down the rest of the incline to face Arthur. Arya took a step, knife at her waist ready to strike, but the shooting end of the rifle came inches from her eyes. She looked up the barrel, up into the dark stormy eyes of Ross.

"I'd give that a rest if I were you, Miss," Milton said absentmindedly. And when he came close enough to Arthur as he liked, he said, "I want Dutch Van Der Linde."

Arthur's eyes were not on Milton. The burning blue gaze was on Arya, at where the rifle rested inches from her hairline. Hands in fists, fuming, trying hard not to break anyone's neck, he returned his glare to Milton.

"Bring in Dutch Van Der Linde, and you have my word you won't swing," Milton proposed, leisurely swinging his shoulders front to back.

"Oh, I ain't gonna swing, agent Milton," Arthur said threateningly. "Because I haven't done anythin' wrong, aside from not play the games to your rules."

Milton's head dropped as he listened, then he stood straight and sighed. "Spare me the philosophy lesson," he drawled. "I've already heard it." Then he smiled slowly. "From Mac Callander."

Arthur was taken aback for a second, eyes going up to Arya then back to the agent before him. "Mac Callander?" he growled.

Milton tilted his head. "He was pretty shot up when I got to him," he admitted with a sigh. "So really, it was more of a mercy killing. Slow and merciful."

Arthur's chin met his chest, the man breathing hard, focusing on not committing the worst of all crimes. Murdering an agent of the law, that is.

Arya wanted to go to him then, the way the air seemed to ripple away from him. She darted her eyes down to Jack, still safe behind the big man. Then she looked at Ross, brown eyes boring into hers relentlessly.

Then Arthur pushed Milton with the full force of his anger, sending the skinny man stumbling back. Ross turned his head, giving Arya the time to disarm him. She dropped the knife and grabbed the end of the weapon. Quick as bullet, she flicked her wrist on the barrel of the rifle, grabbing the length of it, and wrenching it out of Ross's hands in a matter of seconds.

She stood before him, aiming at his face, while he stood breathless, empty handed.

"You enjoy being a rich man's toy, do you?" Arthur bellowed.

Arya didn't look. She kept her hard ink drop stare on the burly man before her, instructing him to move backwards with the jut of her chin. Ross put his hands up slowly, chin up, his ego evident in the coloring of his cheeks.

"I enjoy society," Milton replied, regaining his posture. "Flaws and all. You people venerate savagery and you will _die_ savagely. All of you!"

"Oh, were all gonna die, agent," Arthur answered back.

"Some of us sooner than others," Milton replied darkly. "Good day, Mr. Morgan." Then he turned on his heel, ready to leave, when he spotted the situation before him.

Milton turned from Ross to Arthur, then to the young woman pointing a rifle at an officer of the law. "You put that thing down, or I take you in right away, Miss," Milton growled menacingly. She turned her gaze to him, letting the tension rise, before dropping the gun. Then she emptied the bullets into her palm and threw them all into the river. Ross watched it all from under his brows, black eyes on her, anger fuming from him like a raging fire.

Throwing the rifle at Ross, the young woman said, "Good day, gentlemen." Then just to add emphasis to her carelessness, she bowed a bit, careful to keep her smirk directed to Ross.

The men walked back to their horses, and off they were in a harsh sprint, spilling up dirt on their way.

Arthur turned to Jack, grabbing the boy by the shoulders. "You alright, boy?" he asked, breathless.

"Y-yeah," Jack stammered.

Arthur dragged the boy by the sleeve to Arya. "And you?" Arthur asked, raking his eyes from head to toe, searching for any kind of injury.

Arya shrugged, picking up her knife with a sigh. "We're in deep fucking trouble, Arthur."

"I know," he drawled. "Let's just get back to camp." He touched her shoulder as she walked up, sending sparks down her arm and straight to her ribs. There was worry in his tone, in the way he kept looking at her even when they were on their horses. How his eyes kept finding hers, searching her face.

* * *

Back at camp, Arya carried a sleeping Jack back to his mother, to whom she had to tell about their encounter with the law. Abigail put Jack down for a nap, then patted her swelling belly anxiously.

Arthur had gone straight to Dutch. Arya was about to join into that conversation when she spotted Charles trotting into camp, the man's face pulled into a deep frown. A sense of dread overtook the young woman; tingles spreading from her ears to her toes.

"We need to talk," Charles grumbled as he came strolling her way. His long mane was tangled, his eyes bloodshot, bags under his dark irises.

"You look like shit, Charles," Arya said, following him as he led them to her doctor's tent.

"Observant now, are we?" he growled back, ripping the flap open and gesturing for her to go in. She went in slowly, wiping her sweaty palms on her trousers.

Inside, Arya lit a small lamp and sat on a stool, while Charles all but threw himself onto the cot. Sighing, the young man put a trembling hand to his forehead.

"What's wrong?" Arya asked timidly. "You've been gone a little over a month."

"Yeah," he sighed, his chest heaving. "I've been searching everywhere for that fucking rat."

"Micah?"

"Yeah, like you asked," Charles said, sitting up, eyeing her from under dark brows. "A man like him should be easy to find. I went into every bar, barber shop, hotel, and brothel. I scourged the streets, talked to kids in the sewers, even had to seduce a few prostitutes."

"I'm sure that ain't so bad," Arya sighed condescendingly.

"Point is," Charles reiterated. "I didn't find him."

"What?" Arya stood, brows pulled in tight. "A month in Saint-Denis, and Micah wasn't there?"

"No."

"Then where the fuck was he?"

Charles stood too, putting large palms on her shoulders, as if to settle her. The events of the day compiled with the fact that Micah had definitely lied to Dutch about his whereabouts all seemed to weigh on her at that instant. Her head was a myriad of questions and plans and actions.

"My guess is he's been hanging with our friend, Colm," Charles sighed once he saw Arya wasn't going to have a panic attack. "He probably assumed the attack on us would either kill us all or deplete us, but when he found out we were well alive and thriving, he crawled into a hole to avoid suspicion."

Arya shook her head. "No," she muttered. "That's not it."

Charles crossed his arms and asked in a questioning tone, "And what could it be then?"

"Micah might be a stupid rat," she said, eyes staring blankly ahead, "but he's kind of smart."

"Seriously, A?"

"Yeah." Then Arya smirked at the nickname, picturing her brother instead of Charles for a few seconds. "He knows that if we find Colm or any O'Driscoll, we risk getting his name from their mouths."

"And?" Charles pushed.

Arya's eyes snapped up to Charles with a wicked grin. "We haven't heard word of any O'Driscoll, now, have we?" she asked.

"I've been gone for a month, A, I don't know anything anymore," Charles answered.

"And we haven't heard a thing, a word, or even a gun shot from any O'Driscoll since Micah left." Arya's mind was working wonders just then, turning and wheeling from one possibility to the next. Could it be? "I think Micah got scared we'd figure him out. And now he's cleaning house."

"Killing O'Driscolls?" Charles asked, bewildered.

Arya nodded. "I think our boy is working his way up," she said. "And he's going to get Colm and take his place."

"We need to find him right now," Charles said decidedly. "Before he kills Colm and assumes control. Believe it or not, I rather have Colm in control of the O'Driscolls than Micah. Then they'll call themselves the Bells, and I'm not on board with that."

Arya put a thumb to her mouth. "We can't let Dutch hear about this," she said, seeing Charles nod in agreement with her. "We need to deal with this on our own. We need to find Micah. Quietly."

If they told Dutch, not only would they create a divide in the gang but also a rivalry. Arya, Charles, Arthur, Sadie, John, and Abigail would push for the death of one of Dutch's protegees. On the other hand, Dutch will feel his sense of leadership attacked, questioned, and challenged, and will insist on keeping that sense of superiority in the gang. He'd hence gather his own loyal members – Hosea, Bill, Javier, and others – to keep his position.

They had to keep this quiet.

"We have to leave," Arya said then. "We leave in a week, to avoid suspicion on your part. Can I count on you to inform John and Abigail?"

Charles nodded eagerly. "I'll talk to Sean too," he said. "He can be our eyes and ears in the camp while we're gone."

"I'll talk to Arthur and Sadie," Arya decided. "We will leave in a week. Then Sadie and Arthur a few days after. We will meet up in Emerald Ranch and devise a plan from there."

"Understood," Charles grunted.

Then he left and the tent flaps blew in the soft wind, letting in cool air and a bit of drizzle. Sitting on the cot, the young woman let her heart beat relentlessly against her ribs, her breath heaving in and out in raspy intakes. This was the most stressed she'd been in a long while.

Someone cleared their throat rather awkwardly outside the tent, ripping the girl from her decompressing. "Come in!"

Arthur slowly came in, hat first, head down. When she saw it was him, she stood abruptly, wiping dirt from her shoulders. The gunslinger looked around, inspecting the cot, the stool, and the small table with all her tools.

"Nice place," he huffed.

"Thanks."

"We're leavin' camp tomorrow," he announced, hands on his buckle. "I told Dutch about our encounter with the pinkertons. I'm guessin' that Ross will have it out bad for you after that stunt with his rifle. I'm thinkin' they're plannin' to come here any day now."

Arya's mouth came ajar. "Where are we going?"

"Dutch sent Hosea and John out to look for a new place," the man answered. "South of here."

"I should start packing then," she said absentmindedly, her thoughts swimming. She needed to tell him about the plan. She needed to tell him she never felt stronger for him than she did right now.

"Here," he said, picking up a crate that Arya had used as a sitting instrument. "I'll help."

As they packed, Arya spoke about her thoughts on Micah and the plan she'd initiated with Charles. Everything came spilling out like sauce from a pan, and Arthur was quiet enough to let her talk truthfully. He nodded along, eyeing her thoughtfully, all while folding cloth into a suitcase or packing candle sticks into a crate.

She did not, however, tell him about her feelings still well alive for him.

"Okay," Arthur sighed. Everything was packed beside the cot, which Arthur took a seat on, hand on his mouth. "Don't make Sean your eyes and ears, he's too much of a big mouth. Abigail will be our inside spy instead. I'll leave with Charles in a week, after we've settled at our new camp. You and Sadie will leave two days after."

Arya nodded, but then rolled her eyes. "You couldn't let me have my plan exactly as it was, huh?"

Arthur looked up at her from under the rim of his holed hat. Then a smile spread on his lips like butter in a pan. Slick and slow. "Can't let you have everythin' now, can I?" he teased, getting to his feet. He pulled up his pants slightly, nervously. Scratched the back of his head. Arya's heart began to throb. "Besides, I know Sean better than you. If we make him any kind of spy, he'll spill everythin' as soon as whiskey passes his lips."

Arya snorted. "We still need him on our side."

"Yeah," he sighed, nodding. "But only when and _if_ any fightin' comes. And I'm tellin' you right now, I don't want any of that. Dutch and the gang out there… they're everythin' to me. They mean more than anythin'. I don't want to point a gun at any of 'em from the other side of an argument."

"I know," Arya muttered. "This gang has started to grow on me."

Arthur smiled sweetly. Then he reached out and touched her bicep amiably, as if to reassure her, but the touch of his palm on her skin made fire explode in her chest and cheeks. The red coloring alerted the man to the effect he had on her, and he recoiled, as if burned by a wicked flame.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, avoiding her eyes.

Arya shook her head. "No, don't be."

There was an awkward silence, pregnant with questions none would want or dare to ask. But Arya was a very daring woman. "Do you still…" she whispered, searching the shadows cast by his hat on his face. "Are you still – "

"Yes," Arthur sighed, answering her unasked questions. "I do."

She swallowed thickly, looking at the dirt ground beneath her feet. "Okay."

He took a small step forward, reaching out, maybe to touch her or pull her in, but he stopped himself. His outstretched hand became a fist and he brought it back to his side.

"It's hard not to think about you," she admitted in a soft tone, chin to her chest like a child admitting a fault.

"You have no idea," Arthur answered in a husked voice.

But Arthur would not throw caution out the window. He would not throw reason out with it too. He'd stick to his beliefs, no matter how hard it was, no matter how harshly it hurt him to stay away from her. Being this close, alone, in closed quarters, made it so much harder, as if the world was testing him.


	21. CHAPTER TWENTY: THE UGLY TRUTH

**I'm so sorry this took for fucking ever again. Ugh. I'm the worst! Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter, really kept me going :)**

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY: THE UGLY TRUTH

 _Driving through the roadwork_  
 _Oh the work they took forever on_  
 _The road cones blur like memories_  
 _Of the miles we shared between_

Dutch Van Der Linde had a plan to move the gang yet again to a place south of Horseshoe Overlook. After the stunt pulled in Valentine by Arya and Arthur, they should have left a few days after, but they'd stayed to lick their wounds. And now, after Arthur and Arya had come face to face with the law, there were no more doubts. The gang had to move again.

Grimshaw had given every single member a chore to do, except John, who was under strict orders not to use his hand for anything but his therapy. Mary-Beth and Tilly were in charge of packing and storing all the clothes. Karen and Pearson oversaw packing the food and the wagons. Arya and Sadie had packed their own things and had also closed the doctor's tent and boxed every medical instrument. Bill had boxed the ammunition and weapons. Hosea took care of the books. Charles had cleaned and groomed every horse for the short travel.

Arthur, as usual, was spared of any work. He'd packed his own clothes and photographs he kept in his tent. When his fingers skimmed along the framed picture of Mary – his Mary – the breath in his throat caught. The black and white face of his past love stared up at him, heart-shaped lips in a corner smile, the way she always did whenever he was with her. Her midnight hair was swept up in a chignon, strands curling beside her cheeks. She had been and was still a beauty.

"All them years ago," Arthur groaned, sitting onto his cot with the picture still in his hands. The morning was fresh, but the sun was hiding behind thick grey clouds. Yet the minimum amount of light seeping through was enough to illuminate the features of a woman who slipped between his fingers.

There were many memories swimming to the surface of Arthur's mind. And yet none were enough to remind him of the feelings he'd once had. He knew they'd been there. He knew he'd felt so strongly about her that he'd been ready to marry and potentially leave the gang for her. And now, sitting on his cot, alone, he could not summon those feelings anymore.

He'd let her slip away. Was he ready to let another woman leave him alone?

His eyes slid up from the picture to where Arya was crouched beside her tent, packing a chest with her clothing. She was deep in thought, caramel colored hair in a loose braid down her back, leaving stray hairs curling along her cheeks. Her ink black eyes were focused on her chore, and in that second, Arthur was sure his heart was burning.

The outlaw shook his head, placing the picture of Mary back onto the ground, deciding to leave it there for the animals to do with it what they will. He would not turn Arya into another Eliza.

Arthur climbed onto his horse. Javier and Lenny had rode out early in the morning to keep watch at Clemens Point, their new home. The caravan was ready to leave, and with Dutch climbing into the front, they rode out of Horseshoe Overlook. Arthur glanced back, watching the sway of his horse, looking at the dead and smoking fire where Pearson's stew used to be. Arthur's eyes caught the caramel-haired woman on her horse, the backdrop of the Heartlands mountain painted at her back. She looked at him, cocking her head like a bird.

They rode out from the trees, heading swiftly south under the grey clouds. Rain was heavy in the air, humidity making Arthur's neck slick with sweat. His black union shirt was soaked by the time Dutch called the halfway point.

Charles rode up next to Arthur, who'd taken the lead because he was tired of hearing Karen and Bill arguing.

"Arthur," the man said. "Have you heard a word of Micah?"

Arthur groaned, shaking his head. "I ain't heard a word of that mongrel since I rescued his ass from Strawberry," he answered. "And if he were in Saint-Denis, you'd have found him, right?"

"Yes," Charles agreed. "I really did search just about everywhere for him."

"I believe you."

"Is everyone informed of the plan?" Charles whispered.

Arthur looked at the man sideways. "Yeah."

Abigail was informed to keep an eye and ear out for any suspicious activity. John and Sean were trigger ready. Sadie was informed about their departure in a week's time. They just had to figure out perfect excuses.

"What do we do if we find him?" Charles asked, holding onto the reins of his horse tightly.

Arthur sighed. "We kill him." He didn't want to go against Dutch's orders, or to kill any of his "sons", but Micah was dangerous. He leaked darkness and treason, and Arthur was willing to go behind Dutch's back to eliminate Micah. Afterall, Dutch was beginning to lose his grip.

Clemens Point was beautiful even in the grey morning. Mist coated the even ground and crawled slowly up to the riverbank. Trees had been cleared long ago, but the remaining tree line would provide enough cover for the gang to settle in unnoticed. Arthur was glad for the river lurking and glinting a few feet from the camp. He could go bathe or fish in peace, instead of riding to town for a simple bath.

Grimshaw helped him set up his tent. She hauled in the chest with the few items he'd kept ever since Blackwater. He put up the few pictures of his family that he had and put the tent flaps down to keep the humidity from creeping into his bedroll.

When he was tying the last string of his tent to the wooden post, he glanced sideways to where Sadie and Arya were setting up their tent. The latter's face was stoic, unreadable, as if she'd put up a wall. Maybe it was to keep him out, or maybe it was to keep others from finding out their plan against Micah. Arthur didn't know how long he could live with that face of hers: like hard rocks. They had a week to spend before they rode out to Emerald Ranch. Arthur would have to occupy his mind elsewhere.

By mid-afternoon, the entire camp was set up. Pearson was cooking the next stew. The doctor's tent was open for anyone needing some medical attention. The campfire was roaring near the riverbank, where Sean and Sadie sat. Dutch's white monster of a tent was closed with only him left inside on his own. Molly was helping Grimshaw and the ladies with some chores.

Arthur cleared his throat by Dutch's tent, hands on his belt, a nervous habit of his. "Dutch," he grumbled, leaning his ear against the tent flaps. There was stumbling inside, a groan, and then the tent flap ripped sideways to reveal a red-eyed Dutch.

"Oh, Arthur," he said surprisingly. "It's you."

"Can we have a word?" Arthur asked. There was a lump growing in his throat as he looked over his friend. Tousled hair, red eyes, blurry look on his face, as if he'd been far, far away.

Dutch stepped back and motioned for Arthur to step in. The inside of the tent smelled of Molly's perfume and a hint of liquor.

"A fine place we've found," Dutch said, sitting onto his bed with a groan.

"Not finer than that place up in the west you promised us," Arthur groaned back, uneasily fidgeting from one foot to the other.

Dutch grunted, "Really?" Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I have a plan, Arthur. Just have faith."

Arthur hummed. "Any word from Micah?"

Dutch shook his head. "Not since I sent him to Saint-Denis to find out where Colm was."

"Why did you send Micah to do them things?" Arthur asked. "Why not Charles or me?"

"Because," Dutch sighed, "Micah has connections. He's got some boys who know things. I needed that."

"Are you getting desperate?" Arthur asked in a hushed tone, afraid to insult his longest friend.

Dutch looked up into the eyes of the cowboy before him, eyeing him so intensely, that Arthur thought he might start crying. "I have a plan, Arthur," he repeated. "It's just the chase tirin' me out. And Molly."

"Molly?"

"Well," Dutch groaned. "She's no Annabelle."

Arthur groaned. He knew what it was to be absolutely taken by one woman for the entirety of his life. Even when he lay beside his lanky Eliza, with her head on his chest, he couldn't get Mary out of his mind. Even when Eliza would make love to him, and his mind was reeling to be in the moment, he would be taken back to the first time he'd felt Mary's flesh under his fingertips.

"Just take it easy, Dutch," Arthur sighed. "And keep workin' on that plan of yours. Get us outta here."

Arthur came out of the tent feeling heavy and disoriented. It was the first time in a long time where he needed to find his footing again. The last time was when he decided to leave Mary behind once and for all. He'd never seen Dutch like this, ever since the loss of Annabelle. If the gang saw their leader as devastated as he was then, they would lose their faith.

Arthur's hands became sweaty, tingling crawling up his spine.

"Hey!"

He turned, and immediately the tingling went from his spine to his belly as he faced Arya. She wore one of Sadie's yellow blouses, black trousers, and suspenders. She stared up at him with a stoic expression, inky eyes full of wonder.

"Hello."

The young woman jutted her chin to the tent. "Is he alright in there?"

"As good as can be."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Strauss wants us to go back to Downes."

Arthur frowned. "Downes?"

"Yes," the girl said. "Thomas Downes. You know, the guy who was sick?"

"The farmer?"

"Yeah."

"God," Arthur sighed. "Strauss wants us to go get his money again? After last time?"

Arya shrugged. "We don't have to force it out of him," she said. "He's a poor man with tuberculosis. For all we know, he could be dead by now."

"Dead?" Arthur asked, genuinely interested. He started to walk towards his horse. If they were to head out, might as well do it now.

Arya followed. "Tuberculosis is a progressive illness."

"Progressive?"

"It starts slowly and then all of sudden," she said, "you're coughing blood and mucus."

"You sure know your damn share of diseases," he grumbled, patting the neck of his horse.

Arya looked at him for a long time, this far away look in her eyes that made Arthur's skin crawl. As if she knew something he didn't.

"We should head out right now," he drawled, looking her over. He couldn't think about spending another long trip with her, not after he'd promised himself he'd keep his distances. But he felt so good with her. Whenever she stood near him, he felt invincible and breakable all at once. It was inexplicable the way she made him feel.

While she was off packing some of her things, Arthur made sure every single weapon he owned was slung from the saddle of his horse. On the back, he rolled up a tent and a few items of clothing in the bags. He made sure to take a small whiff at himself, intent on being as presentable to the Downes as he could be to Arya.

His heart fluttered like birds in the cage of his ribs, heat and pain spreading across his body like butter in a pan; slow and slick. Arya's eyes were like waiting pools of black as she gave him a half smile from atop her horse. Hair in the wind. Cheeks rosy from the morning dew still clinging to her. Yellow blouse open to expose the small intricate beauty marks on her chest.

Arthur longed to graze his fingers across her skin, discovering every mark and blemish and bump of her body, like all the maps he'd poured over in his youth; in search of treasures.

The outlaw – the dangerous and wanted gunslinger – had to shake himself before he swung onto his mount. This was business. This was money lending and other sins. He was a man, and he should – and ought – to have restraint.

They set off from Clemens Point just as the sky was clearing. Rays of sunshine fell on the desert ground like pools of light leading their way. Wildlife had awaken and scattered at the hooves of their horses, titter tattering in the echoing valleys of New Hanover.

There was something wild in the poised look of the young woman beside him. Even though she was calm and sat straighter than a rod, the look in her eyes suggested otherwise. There was ferocity in the inky blackness; a tentative yet vivid wildness. It made him afraid to look her way, instead stealing glances here and there, stealing images, brief moments. Her hair. Her lips. The delicate bone structure of her jaw. The length of her neck. The color of her cheeks. The curling tips of her caramel hair.

Arthur wondered what it would feel like to hold her close to him again. Like he'd done in Saint-Denis, all those weeks ago. He remembered vividly then as she took the lead before him the feel of her body pressed firmly against his like two magnets. The texture of her hair, soft and thick, intertwined between his fingers like water. The softness of her lips, full and wet, against his mouth, sweet as honey. The tingling at the bottom of his spine, climbing up onto his body with greedy fingers, demanding more and more.

He gulped, gripping the reins, unable to keep his mind from reeling.

"We should be back by tomorrow afternoon, yes?" Arya demanded from in front of him.

Arthur had to rip himself from his thoughts, feeling as if he'd emerged from a fog as he looked onto the swaying figure of Arya.

"We should, yeah."

"Then Sadie and I will leave for Emerald Ranch," Arya said. "You'll follow a day later."

"That's the plan, isn't it?" he asked mockingly, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. He couldn't tell if she was smiling, but he sure hoped he could see the smile he was robbed of for so long. He still remembered the way his body crumbled the first time he saw her smile. He'd never forget such a sensation coursing through his veins like a speeding train.

"Tell me," Arthur began, mostly to get the nagging thoughts from consuming him. "Why is catching Micah so important for you."

The silence that followed was pregnant with unspoken words that were as heavy as if they'd been uttered. Arya's shoulders tensed, the swaying of her body going from undulating to stiff.

"He may lead us to Colm," she answered in a coarse tone.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. The desert around him shifted from hot lands to cooler territory. He recognized these parts. They were getting near to their encampment for the night. Just a few more hours.

"Ah," Arthur groaned. "Ole Mister O'Driscoll."

"You don't know him like I do," she answered rapidly, shooting a glance sideways, giving Arthur a perfect cut out of her profile.

"I know he done killed Dutch's woman," Arthur answered. "And Dutch ain't been the same ever since."

"Dutch isn't a whitewashed man either," the girl shot back. "He killed Heidi McCourt, didn't he? A pregnant woman. With a gunshot to the head."

Arthur's blood ran cold. Anger and fear broke from their trap and swam through his veins as cold as the dead. "And just how in the hell do you know that?" he demanded.

Arya's shoulders went rigid and she spurred her mount onwards. Something wasn't right. Arthur's stomach stirred with familiar caution; the same he'd had the very first time he'd lain eyes on her, sitting hogtied to a chair, candlelight illuminating her girlish features. Features that were ferocious and vicious, sending warning bells chiming in his head.

"Arya!" he called.

"I hear things, Arthur!" she shouted back.

He caught up to her, matching paces with her mount easily. "Dammit, woman," he growled, reaching over the rip the reins from her hands. "How do you know that?!"

She sighed heavily, their horses coming to a sloppy stop in the middle of the dusty route. She turned to him a heavy yet empty black stare.

"I just…" she trailed off, boring on him black eyes drinking up the midday sun. She looked as if she was about to tell him something, like it hung from the air, beyond his grasp, out of his reach. She was pressed onward in her saddle, mouth ajar, eyes open to the possibility of telling him whatever she was about to. But then her black eyes fell to the ground and a cloud blocked the sun, casting shadows across her face like a haunted, ghost-ridden town casting long black shadows against the ground. "People talk, Arthur."

He knew that wasn't the truth. He could see it running across her face as plain as day.

"You're a lot of things, Arya Reed," he growled, looking at her from under the rim of his hat. "But you ain't no liar." With that, he spurred on his horse and set off at a gallop, listening to the following hooves of Arya's mount.

"I'm telling you!" she shouted over to roaring of their horses' hooves on the dirt and dry ground.

Arthur grunted under his breath, hating the way his stomach twisted. He wanted to know. The truth teased him as badly as his own feelings for the girl riding beside him.

"You're hidin' somethin'!" he shouted. "And I'm tired of bein' given half-assed answers to my questions!"

"Arthur! Slow down please!"

Against his own reason, he reduced his speed and looked at her; rosy cheeks and endearing eyebrows turned upwards in agony. He hated himself then. He hated himself always.

"There is somethin' wrong with you," he grunted. "And I ain't able to put my finger on it. Sometimes, I tell myself – ah – it's no big deal. And then you say some shit like what you was sayin' back then, knowin' all them things about Dutch! I can't explain it, God knows I can't. But I tell you, I get this feeling like you… like you don't belong here."

He saw the hurt in her eyes before he could register what he was saying. It crossed her features like a dark storm racking the countryside; tumultuous and wrecking.

"I – I didn't mean it like that, I – well, just meant – "

"I know," she said softly, her voice carrying none of the hurt that had crossed her face as rapidly as a fleeing deer. "I know what you mean." She was white knuckling her reins, mouth pulled into a tight line.

"Arya, I meant no offense."

She looked at him harshly, eyes now harboring a hardness he knew was protection. "I've never really belonged here." And there it was again, the truth hanging before him like a treat to a cat, a bone to a dog, reeling him in as slowly as can be. The way her eyes searched him, almost begging him to go digging, opened up a well of questions in his mind.

There was nothing else to add. In Arthur's mind, he would have continued to pry, but he was never one to put his nose where it didn't belong. He wouldn't make more of a mess of their friendship – or whatever this was.

They rode in silence as the earth went from mud to dry dirt to patches of grass. The sun sloped over them in an arch, setting on the horizon in a deep orange and soft pink. Their breaths were coming out frigid from their mouths by the time Arthur found an empty, secluded spot for camp to be set up.

Arthur found kindle for the fire and set it up right away, casting a glow of orange and shadows across their encampment. Arya brought out their cots and provisions for the night, while Arthur quickly set up their tent. By the time the night was a blanket of stars and a bright white moon, Arya was sitting quietly by the fire, twiddling with her can of beans. Arthur was leaning against the tent's pole, hat on the ground, finishing up his meal of offal and salted meat.

"You said I was a lot of things," Arya said, her voice breaking through the sounds of wildlife and nighttime travelers.

Arthur looked up from his fingers, finding it hard to pretend he didn't feel the warmth – the paining warmth – spreading in his belly. "What?"

"Before," she insisted, staring at the fire, "you said I was a lot of things but not a liar."

"Yeah."

"Well, I am a liar."

Arthur sighed, crossing his ankles. "There's a difference between bein' a downright liar and hidin' things," he drawled, voice cracked from the way his heart was racing. "You're just hidin' things is all."

She licked her lips, cocking her head ever the slightest. "I don't wanna be a liar, you know."

"I know."

"I saw what lyin' did to my brother," she whispered. "How it tore at him. Tore us apart, too."

"I never got to tell you," Arthur said slowly, "but I am sorry for what them O'Driscolls did to your brother."

Arya shrugged. "It's nothing he didn't have coming for him, I guess." Then she looked at the ground, puckering her lips. "We weren't supposed to be here. We weren't supposed to live our lives like this."

Then she turned to him, eyes wide, black drinking in the flames like a parched man gulping on water. Something stirred in Arthur's mind, jolting him from spine to ears.

She opened her mouth, lips bright and red, the truth about to spool from her tongue.

And yet Arthur didn't want to hear it. He felt that if the truth were laid bare before him like a newborn, he wouldn't be able to find the same Arya as he had now. The truth, or more the hiding of said truth, was like a blanket cover over an ugliness he felt unable to look dead on.

He rushed onto his knees, feeling the pebbles and dirt digging into his flesh. His hands reached out for her easily, grasping at her delicate neck.

There was no caution. There was no alarm bells or hatred or restraint. There was no apology. Arthur didn't think about what he'd promised himself only days before. All he cared about was keeping that ugliness away. All he wanted was to seal the lock over the truth and keep the Arya he knew.

There was nothing but protection and want as he reached out and grabbed the back of her neck, bringing her mouth flat against his.

* * *

 **WOO! Is Arthur finally throwing caution out the window and going for what he wants? Hopefully.**


End file.
